His pants are hanging on the back of the door. I slide my hand into one pocket and then the other to feel around for the keys. They aren’t there. I rummage in one of the back pockets where cold metal finally licks my fingers. As carefully as I can, I pluck the clump of keys from his pocket. Maks gibbers in his sleep. I could do anything I wanted to him now. He isn’t so tough snoring with his mouth open. But I haven’t time to waste. I have to get out of here.
I pick a key from the bunch at random and try it in the lock. It doesn’t fit. The next one slides into the lock but won’t budge. And on and on until, after trying nine or ten keys, one of them slides into the lock and turns, and with a low groan, the door opens. I tiptoe into the hallway, using the key to lock Maks in the room, and run.
They are waiting: Silas, Song, Abel, and Quinn. And they’re all carrying several airtanks and small bags. “Where have you been?” Silas whispers.
“Maks wouldn’t go to sleep.”
“The keys?” Abel asks. I pass them to him and he curls his fingers around them like I’ve handed him a hunk of gold.
“Where’s Dorian?” I ask.
“He must have decided to stay,” Silas says, unperturbed.
“He wouldn’t do that. I’ll go find him.”
“We haven’t time.” Silas grabs my arm. “And he’s obviously made his choice.”
“He told us himself he doesn’t want to live as a drifter,” Song says.
“We can’t go without him,” I add. We came together and that’s how we should leave. Besides, we won’t be drifters if we can oust the Ministry.
Voices echo from one of the floors above. “Keep it down,” Abel says. He slides the painting to one side. “Are you coming?” The voices from above are getting louder and are accompanied by footsteps. If we stand around prattling, we’ll be caught and then no one will be able to leave.
“I’m coming back for him,” I say. And I mean it. I’m not saving Maude and Bruce only to leave Dorian behind. He’s been with the Resistance since the beginning, and I’ve known him too long. He hasn’t changed overnight. I know he hasn’t.
“Come on,” Silas says.
Abel ushers us behind the painting. The door clunks shut and we descend slowly, careful not to slip and tumble on top of one another.
“I’ll lead the way. I’ve been observing The Sanctuary for a few days now, so I’ve a good idea of the lay of things,” Abel says.
“And the plan?” Silas asks.
“We get in, unbuckle as many benefactors and kids as we can, and get the hell out of there,” Quinn says. Thankfully he doesn’t mention the pod or Bea.
One thing at a time.
Abel unlocks The Sanctuary door, and as we’re about to creep inside, a voice calls out. Damn. We have no weapons; wrestling with a nurse or several nurses isn’t part of the plan.
“Everyone get back,” Silas whispers. We jump away from the door. A shadow hovers over the light.
“Vanya?” The voice is tight and cautious, and as the light is being sliced away, Silas leaps out of the night and on top of the nurse. We pile in after him. The nurse thrashes on the tiled floor in her white overalls, screeching like a tram coming into a station. I pull a T-shirt from my bag and stuff it into her mouth. Abel holds her arms, and Quinn and Song stop her kicking.
Silas stands up and pokes her in the side with the toe of his shoe. “Tie her up,” he says. She continues to writhe. He roots in his bag and pulls out a T-shirt of his own that he rips into pieces. I quickly tie the ends of the fabric together and use them to bind the nurse’s hands and feet.
“Some of us should go and release the benefactors while you take care of her,” Abel says. “The nurses only check in when the oxygen levels change, so we have about twenty minutes.”
Silas thinks for a moment. “Where’s the air?” he asks. We can’t go anywhere if we don’t have a decent supply.
“There’s a room down the hall where they give the benefactors tanks and make them climb and run. Look in the closet. Here,” Abel says. He throws the keys to Silas and Silas pulls a handgun from the nurse’s belt and throws it to Abel.
And we’re off, Song, Abel, and I, hurtling along the hallway and leaving Silas and Quinn to deal with the nurse.
The room we enter is unlit apart from a thin moonbeam. Abel pulls out a flashlight, which he shines around the room. It’s the same ward I saw yesterday, beds along each side and people tied to them. The machines by the beds hiss and beep.
“Over there,” Abel says, aiming the light at the far corner of the room. “Jo!” He goes to her, shakes her awake, and unfastens her wrists and ankles. He pulls the tubes from her mouth and nose, then looks down at the IV in her hand.
“I can take it out,” I say, pushing him aside. I’ve never done anything like this, but I know what Abel’s hesitations have led to before. I put pressure on the needle and slide it from her hand. She squeaks. She points to her mouth and gasps and Abel puts his own facemask over her mouth to help her breathe.
“You came,” she says, pushing the mask away. She hasn’t had the baby yet; they’re experimenting on her while she’s pregnant.
I’m about to unbuckle the benefactor in the bed next to Jo’s when Maude pipes up. “You took your sweet time. I’ve probably got bedsores on me bum. Untie me. Hurry up!”
She isn’t wearing shoes and throws off a surgical robe revealing her emaciated, naked body. “Where are your clothes?” I ask. She points to a bin in the corner of the room brimming with rags. I help her up, pull out the tubes and IVs, and she hobbles over to the bin and scrambles into an outfit that looks far too big for her. Within a minute, two more benefactors are next to her doing the same thing.
I go from bed to bed, unbuckling scrawny ankles and wrists and pulling out tubes. “Quicker!” Abel says.
Silas barges in holding a bawling toddler, its mouth a perfect ring of noise. Abel groans. “Shut. Her. Up.” If the situation weren’t so serious, his nerves would be comical.
“You shut it,” Maude snarls and slaps Abel. Abel puts his hand to his face like it’s too hot to touch.
“There aren’t that many of them,” Silas says.
“Did you find the tanks?” I ask.
“Quinn’s sorting that out,” he says.
Abel scratches his eyebrows as the baby continues to bawl. The cry wheels around the room like a security alarm. Silas tries to cover the baby’s mouth.
Jo is sitting on the end of a bed near the door rubbing her belly. She reaches out her arms and Silas hands her the baby he’s holding. Looking at them, I’m struck by the hopelessness of the situation. How will we care for infants? How will Jo crawl under the wall and away with her large belly, and who’s going to deliver her baby when the time comes? None of us are doctors. We aren’t even proper adults. She looks at Abel and rocks the baby. We aren’t on the run yet, and I feel defeated.
“Show me the nursery,” Maude says to Silas, and that’s when I remember she was training to be a nurse. After everything I’ve felt about Maude, could she be our one hope? “The rest of you, keep releasing these ones,” she says, and they leave.
We release the remaining benefactors as fast as we can. Most sit up and get dressed, but a few refuse to stir, the whites of their eyes glowing. And we haven’t time to convince them to leave.
“Help us,” Silas says, darting back into the room carrying a child in each arm. Bruce seizes a sleeping girl from Silas. The rest of us tear toward the nursery and carry off a child apiece. Abel meets us in the hallway with a gaggle of children ranging from about four to eight. Their eyes are wide. “We’re saving you, okay?” I say, using a gentle voice. They nod, but they still look frightened.