When I’ve led the soldiers four or five blocks down, past the dust cloud and several warehouses, I suddenly veer off down a narrow corridor. Before they can turn the corner, I run straight at one of the alley’s walls—and when I’m several feet away I jump up and kick off against the brick. My hands shoot out. I grab on to the second floor’s ledge and it’s only the work of the moment to spring up to it. My feet land solidly on the ledge.
By the time the soldiers have rushed into the same alley, I’ve melted into the shadowed crevice of a second-floor window. I hear the first ones pause, then their bewildered exclamations. Now’s as good a time as any, I think. I reach up and pull my cap off, letting my white-blond hair tumble loose. One of the soldiers turns his head up fast enough to see me dart out of the window crevice and turn the corner from the second-floor ledge. “Did you see that?” someone shouts incredulously. “Was that Day?” As I jam my feet into the spaces of old bricks and pull myself up to the third floor, the soldiers’ tones go from confused to angry. Someone shouts at the others to shoot me down. I just grit my teeth and leap up to the third floor.
The first bullets ricochet off the wall. One hits inches away from my hand. I don’t stop—instead I lunge up toward the top floor and swing up onto the slanted rooftop in one move. More sparks light up the bricks below me. Off in the distance I see the station—the train’s arrived, half hidden behind steam, and parked unattended except for several soldiers who have stepped off the train itself.
I scamper up the roof and slide down its other half, then take another flying leap to the next roof. Down below, some of the soldiers have started rushing back toward the train. Maybe they’ve finally realized that this is all a diversion. My eyes leave the station only when I go flying onto another rooftop.
Two blocks away.
Then, an explosion. A bright, furious cloud rolls up from farther down the railroad tracks, and even my rooftop vantage point shudders. The impact makes me lose my balance and fall to my knees. There’s the blast Pascao had mentioned. I take in the inferno for a moment, pondering. A lot of soldiers are going to be heading over there—it’s dangerous, but if my job is to let the Republic know I’m alive, I better make sure I’m seen by as many people as possible. I push myself back onto my feet and run faster, stuffing my hair back up into my cap as I go. The soldiers below have split into two groups—one dashing toward the explosion, the other continuing to trail me.
Suddenly I skid to a stop. The soldiers rush right past the building I’m on. Without wasting another second, I slide down the roof and swing down from the edge of the gutter. Boot into foothold. One after another. I jump down to the pavement. The soldiers probably just realized they’d lost me, but I’m already blending into the shadows on the ground. Now I’m running steadily along the street as if I’m just another soldier. I head for the train.
The sleet’s coming down harder. The blaze left over from the explosion lights up the night sky, and I’m close enough to the train to hear shouts and pounding feet. Did Pascao and the others get out safely? I quicken my steps. Other soldiers materialize through the sleet, and I fall smoothly into line with them as we jog alongside the train. They’re rushing toward the fire.
“What happened?” one of them shouts at another.
“Don’t know—I heard some spark set off the cargo.”
“That’s impossible! The railcars are all covered—”
“Somebody get ahold of Commander DeSoto. The Patriots made their move—send word to the Elector—they’re—”
They continue on; I miss the last half of the sentence. I gradually slow until I’m at the back of the line, then I dart away into the tiny slit between two railcars. All the soldiers I can see are still headed for the blaze. Others are in the area where I’d set off the dust bomb, and the ones who’d been chasing me are probably still bewildered, combing the streets I was running. I wait until I’m certain there’s no one else near me. Then I slide out from between the railcars and run along the opposite side of the tracks that the other soldiers were on. I let my hair loose again. Now I just need to choose the right moment to make my grand appearance.
There are small markings on each railcar that I pass. Coal. Tracked guns. Ammunition. Food. I’m tempted to stop at the last one, but that’s just the Lake part of me talking. I remind myself that I’m not scavenging on the streets anymore and that the Patriots have a full pantry in their headquarters. I force myself to keep going. More markings. More warfront supplies.
Then I pass a marking that forces me to stop. A shiver runs down my arms and legs. I quickly jog back to see the marked railcar again, just in case I’d imagined it.
Nope. There it is, embossed into the metal. The one I’d recognize anywhere.
The three-lined X. My mind whirls—I see the red spray-painted symbol scarring my mother’s door, the plague patrols making their way from house to house in Lake, Eden being taken away. There’s no way this symbol could mean anything other than the fact that my brother, or something related to him, is on this train. All my interest in the Patriots’ plan goes right out of my head. Eden might be in here.
I can tell the two sliding car doors are locked, so I take a few steps back, then run at it. When I’m close enough, I jump, take three fast steps against the car’s side, grab the top edge of the car, and pull myself up.
There’s a circular metal seal in the middle of this railcar’s roof that they’re probably using to access the interior. I crawl over to it, run my fingers along the edges, and find four latches holding the seal down. Feverishly I pry them loose. The soldiers should be coming back any second now. I push against the seal with all the strength I’ve got. It slides open a crack, just enough for me to jump in.