Where Rebels Hide: A Slave Series Prequel Read online

  WHERE REBELS HIDE

  Laura Frances

  © 2018 Laura Frances. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Jonathan

  Esma

  Jonathan

  Esma

  Jonathan

  Esma

  Jonathan

  Esma

  Jonathan

  Esma

  Jonathan

  Esma

  Jonathan

  Esma

  Jonathan

  Esma

  Jonathan

  Esma

  Jonathan

  Esma

  Jonathan

  Esma

  Jonathan

  Esma

  Jonathan

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  The Complete Series

  Slave (Book One) Excerpt

  For that book club in China.

  You know who you are.

  Thank you for inspiring me to write this.

  Patience is not the absence of courage.

  It is the very essence of it.

  JONATHAN

  She was crying the first time he saw her.

  Long, dark hair pulled tight in a tail, tattered boots the same as his, and red eyes dropping large tears to her chin.

  Tears weren’t unusual in the valley, but on the morning they passed, crossing directions along the high walkway of their living unit tower, he thought the tears only added to her beauty.

  His mother used to cry, before the Watcher killed her. But he always felt her tears pulled at her features, dragging her weathered skin downward. Not ugly—he would never think that. But sorrow made his mother look tired.

  Jonathan slowed his feet, and their eyes connected. He experienced the first of many chest pangs that would keep him awake in the nights coming. Her eyes were blue, deep and dark.

  She looked to the ground and rushed on, pulling in her shoulders, arms crossing in a self-hug of protection. Jonathan’s gaze followed her until his body twisted, watching over his shoulder, steps sloppy.

  There was a slight turn of her head, and he thought she might look back. But her boots carried her away, clanging down the shifty, metal stairs, and Jonathan was left contemplating whether he should have asked if she was okay.

  It had been a month since he and his father were transferred to Tower Three, but he’d never seen that girl before. Not surprising. Most days he left long before the crowd—an old habit he’d picked up at age ten, when he started factory work. Tardiness brought on punishment, and he’d seen the way his father winced following his own encounters with the Watchers. Better not to risk it. But today he’d left the extra bread he’d saved, and he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving it to go stale when he’d pass dozens of hungry stomachs on his route to work.

  The front door whined when he pulled it open. The room was dusty and dim, with a ripped curtain hanging limp over the window. His father was already gone, a good thirty minutes ahead because his factory was farther. He’d never know if Jonathan walked the three steps to the table in his boots. In truth, the worn-out soles would make little difference on the cracked tile floor that never seemed to be clean. But William Bakker had asked so little of Jonathan over the years; this one rule, set to respect their small space as a home rather than the cell it was meant to feel like, was an easy one to obey. Jonathan slipped his feet from the boots and slid in thin socks to the table.

  Bread in hand and mind full of the crying girl, the boy stepped into his boots again and made his way to the same creaky metal stairs he’d traveled twice already that morning. The heat suffocated, thick with humidity, and sweat trickled in beads down his spine.

  Jonathan ran down the steps, maneuvering around slow-moving Workers walking hunched, already defeated. It didn’t help to start a full day of labor in a sour mood, so he’d been careful to smile with his father during their morning routine of washing and straightening and eating. It was a habit the father taught the son, and it served them both well when the days were spent under the threat of rifles and black-clothed soldiers with keen eyes.

  When he reached the ground level, the boy set his course toward an alley just across the narrow street. But he didn’t make it more than three steps before his attention was caught. Backtracking, he scanned the area for Watchers and ducked beneath the stairs.

  Resting uncomfortably against the rough brick wall was an old man, clothes torn, one of his legs half the length it should be. The damaged limb was crudely wrapped in dressings, but the filth of living on the street had made any medical efforts useless.

  “What’s your name?” Jonathan asked, careful to keep his voice only in their immediate space. Watchers heard everything.

  Opening his eyes, the old man tried to speak, but the sound was wrong. After clearing his throat, he said, “Forget my name.”

  The words came out rough, a scratching more than anything. Jonathan touched the man’s shoulder.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “Names are easy things to forget when we don’t use them often.”

  He cringed. What a stupid thing to say. Of course we never forget our names. But what else do you tell an old man on the edge of sanity?

  The Outcast shook his head against the wall.

  “No,” he muttered. “Forget my name. Forget me. Just…forget.”

  Jonathan sat back on his heels, surprised by the response. He’d fed Outcasts all his life, slipping into the shadows and slinking along dark alleys, dropping small bites of food into begging hands. But this was a first. He handed the man the bread.

  “I don’t want to forget you. Will you tell me?”

  The food was received without a thank you, but it didn’t stop the boy from continuing.

  “My name is Jonathan,” he said, stretching his hand forward. When his offer to shake wasn’t accepted, he gestured toward the tower looming above them.

  “I’m on the ninth floor. I come this way every day, so if you’re here, I’ll check on you. Will you let me do that?”

  No response. Only the quiet chewing of a man who'd decided existing no longer mattered, but obviously not enough to reject a small meal. Jonathan nodded.

  "It's decided then. I'll be back by here tonight."

  He stood, turning to go.

  "How old are you, kid?"

  Jonathan slowly spun on his heel to face the old man again.

  "Eighteen, sir."

  "Don't call me sir.

  "My father taught me to respect my—"

  "You heard what I said. I don't care what your father taught you."

  Jonathan stood quiet, thinking. A grin crept up in the corner of his mouth.

  "Then tell me your name."

  The man grunted. The boy thought he'd won, but after a stretch of silence, the old man simply closed his eyes.

  "Best get going," he muttered.

  Reluctantly, Jonathan obeyed, but not before one last word on the matter. "See you tonight."

  ESMA

  Her father wasn't cruel; the things he said were born from worry, nothing more. But that didn't lessen the sting.

  Esma trudged along a dank alley, sweat wetting her hairline. A group of women walked together two yards back, heads bent in quiet conversation.

  How could you be so stupid? her father had said. Eighteen years, and still
you let this happen.

  I was tired, she'd pleaded. But nothing cooled his temper. Her father stepped closer. She knew he wouldn't touch her; that wasn't his way. Words were the weapon of choice when he was stressed or scared.

  We are all tired. He leaned closer, and his voice dropped just above a whisper. But one more slip up like this, and you'll be dead.

  Her heart rate picked up, remembering the cold way he'd said the words. She knew he felt the pain of them deep inside, but his exterior was always stern.

  It was her fault; she knew it. Everything he'd said was true. She'd let herself fall asleep after sitting against a wall in the hallway outside the cafeteria. There were five minutes left before the next shift, and the floor looked as comfortable as a bed to her worn out muscles. But when the siren wailed, ending lunch, the sound didn't penetrate her dream. By the time the Watcher pulled her awake and to her feet, the hall had already cleared.

  She was lucky the Watcher showed mercy. He barked an order for her to get moving, and the moment ended. The only mistake made later was telling her mother.

  The smells along the alleys choked her breath. The summer heat cooked all the odors into one nauseating blend, and only rain or wind could lessen the intensity.

  Esma made it to the clothing factory just before the siren wailed. Workers were still filing in, and Watchers flanked the line. She found a place at the back and shuffled with the others, mind wandering to the morning scene in their unit.

  You shouldn't say that, Manuel. Her mother tried to step in, but as usual, only escalated the fight. Manuel's glare shifted to his wife, and Esma steeled herself for what would come.

  You baby her. You're not helping when you let her think lowering her guard is acceptable!

  Fire lit in her mother's eyes. Esma plopped on the nearest cot, exhausted.

  I do not baby her, his wife retorted. But I do try to make this home a peaceful place. We all have enough to worry about without you throwing guilt in our faces when we make a mistake!

  Manuel pointed to his own chest, jabbing the thin fabric of his shirt.

  It is my job to protect this family. And if that means I have to come down hard when that child risks her life for a nap, I will do so. He turned to Esma. Now get to work. And don't sit down if you think you'll fall asleep this time.

  The line at the factory moved fast, and soon Esma was next to press her thumb to a glass circle and receive her assignment. Her eyes flicked to the soldiers standing staggered throughout the large room. There were more of them than usual, their guns on full display, fingers hovering near triggers. Unease crept under her skin.

  In the strange silence, Esma felt oddly aware of sound. The buzz of the bright lights. The thud of her boots on the tile. Her breath…even her swallows. Every cough or murmured word coming from the other Workers sent a twinge through her chest. They all seemed to sense the same tension; by the time Esma reached her post, no one talked.

  Eyes shifted back and forth, worried gazes connecting from across the workroom. Watchers paced, moving their large forms in a patternless weave, checking everything, observing everyone.

  Esma lifted the first shirt from the bin and ran her fingers along the hem, checking for inconsistencies. Her eyes watched the movement of the stitching, then lifted to scan the room. From across the room, Esma met the nervous gaze of a middle-aged woman. For three seconds they held, until the girl dropped her eyes.

  The first hour passed slow. In the long stretching minutes sorting garments she would never wear, a face appeared in Esma's mind: the boy from the high walkway. The image stood still like a snapshot. Pale skin framed in dark hair. Brown eyes wide open, like he saw all the things she felt.

  A siren shattered her thoughts, and Esma jumped.

  Fabric slipped through her fingers, her eyes wide and focused on the activity of the room. Watchers ordered them all to stand, and Esma obeyed. Her gaze connected again with the woman across the space, who set a hand on her own chest and exaggerated a breath. Breathe, she was saying. Esma tried.

  Static filled the air, and all the Watchers raised their rifles to firing position, the barrels aimed at the trembling Workers. Esma tried to slow her breaths...tried to calm her racing heart. But this was something new, and she feared it.

  "Ladies and gentlemen." A male voice boomed through the speakers, raising the hairs on Esma's neck. "This is your Council speaking."

  Someone in the room gasped. Esma didn't make a sound—didn't move a muscle. But her insides knotted, fear heavy like a stone in her stomach. The Council rarely spoke to the people. They must have done something wrong.

  Workers shifted, uneasy, and the Watchers tightened their grips, stepping closer.

  "There will be a change to the rules effective immediately. I suggest you pay close attention."

  A long pause for effect.

  "Until now, curfew violation has resulted in heavy discipline. But beginning today, all Workers caught outside their units after the assigned hour will be shot dead on sight."

  Esma's body went rigid, heart hammering in her ears. She could always reason out the new rules, but not this time. There was no sense in killing them, unless the Council meant to stir up fear. Heat stung her eyes, but she fought it, afraid to show a reaction. From the corner of her vision, she caught sight of a black-clothed soldier walking nearer to her station.

  "There will be no exceptions," the Councilman concluded.

  "It's too much!"

  Esma's gazed jerked left, toward the source of the outcry. A man stepped out of his station, eyes wild with anger.

  "We've done nothing wrong!"

  Without warning, the nearest Watcher took aim.

  Esma's body jerked, a hand flying to her mouth when the gun went off.

  Don't react. Don't respond.

  But the trembling was out of her control.

  JONATHAN

  The barrel of a rifle hovered inches from his head.

  Jonathan kept his eyes forward through the announcement. He’d done well keeping his body calm, resisting the terror clawing up his spine. Ignoring it felt like a choice rather than simply behaving in the expected, submissive way. It helped to be in control of something.

  The Watcher shifted closer, and the movement caused Jonathan's gaze to flick up to the large man's eyes. It was a foolish thing to do, and the second they connected, terror took hold. Jonathan's hands balled into fists, an outlet for the tension.

  What rattled him more than the weapon was the look in the soldier's eyes. It was a slight widening, a twitch at the edge. For a split second his hardened features cracked, and Jonathan saw the fear.

  The announcement ended, and the Watchers stepped back, shouting orders. Jonathan moved with the crowd, shuffling slow to the laundry room where he'd continue his job sorting linens. He didn’t mind the task, because fresh laundry was a pleasant smell he could breathe in easily. But now the atmosphere had thickened with anxiety.

  Shaking fingers and sweat-lined foreheads.

  Trembling lips and missteps.

  He felt it too. Anxiety coiled through Jonathan's body, and his thoughts were fixated on the strange look he'd shared with the Watcher. That moment unsettled him more than hearing the Councilman's voice; if the Watchers were afraid, this was only a taste of what the Council had planned. But why?

  The hours dragged on slow. In the cafeteria during lunch, many trays were left untouched. Jonathan ate his food: a simple hot potato, one strip of thin, dried meat, and small pieces of carrot from a can. He didn't see wisdom in missing a meal. If they were all to get home before curfew, they'd need energy.

  When the siren wailed at the end of the day, Jonathan finished his task the way he always did. He carefully folded the last linen and set it correctly on the stack. Walking to the clipboard that swayed from a nail on the wall, he lifted the half-used pencil hanging from a string of yarn and marked his responsibilities as completed.

  The other Workers around him scrambled, rushing the door like a fi
re chased them out. None of them had likely ever been late for curfew before. If they followed their normal routine, stayed calm and kept a reasonable pace, nothing would change. But while Jonathan thought these things and tried to do them himself, he didn't blame anyone for panicking. Inside, beneath the calm exterior, his heart was pounding.

  The last of the light was fading when he stepped outside, but the air remained thick. Yellow street lights illuminated small patches along the street. Workers ran under their glow, rushing fast to their towers. They ran like bullets were already flying, already targeting their backs. Watchers paced, eyes trained like the shot would be easy.

  Jonathan traveled no faster than normal at first. A few others were also walking, and their steadiness gave the boy courage to keep his stride. He would have continued this way all twelve blocks, but his thoughts shifted to his father.

  William Bakker was a good man, but he was proud, and this wouldn't sit well...the boy knew it. Worry burned in his chest, and Jonathan made his steps faster—though still refusing to run. His mind filled with all the things that could happen, all the possible outcomes if his father acted out. He'd never stepped out of line before, but this might be enough to provoke him.

  Halfway to home, he caught up with the crowd; in their panic, the run hadn't lasted, and they all gasped for breath. He maneuvered past, turning sideways to squeeze between shoulders. Their boots slid over the asphalt in slow shuffles. He was thinking of words, something to say to encourage them, when a loud pop in the distance shattered the silence. Jonathan's gaze darted to the nearest clock mounted high on a wall, but curfew was still forty minutes away.