The Artist

Chapter 5

6/7

I wake up before they even place their hands on me.

     I rocket out of the bed, smacking the hands away and placing my back against the corner so that no one can come up from behind me. I feel like a frightened animal. I probably look like one. My heart hammers against my temple, my throat, my chest. My breathing accelerates.

     Drake is staring at me, eyes slightly widened. He has one hand reached out, the other braced for any attack he may receive. He nods his head to around the corner, and Oscar comes into my view, wringing his wet hands with a towel.

     "Ah, you're awake."

     "Petrified is a better word."

     Oscar ignores my comment and disappears before coming back with dry limbs and a bag in hand. He gives us a smile that's too cheery in my opinion, and I can only pray that what comes out of his mouth doesn't send my heart flying away.

     Oscar's voice drops to a whisper. I strain to hear. "There's two members from E.V.O.G.A.P. in the lobby—"

     At my confused look, the Mind Bender pauses to let Drake explain. "E.V.O.G.A.P. is a terrorist group that works against us. They're who America is fighting against, at the moment."

     My brows furrow. E.V.O.G.A.P. is the group working with the president to conquer people like us. Now they're the unnamed terrorist group America is sending prison people to destroy? Every time the news came on, the Vietnamese man, in his mid-fifties, no doubt, would continually promise the public of the States that they would destroy the people like us.

     They're the terrorist group?

     The confusion must have been written on my face, because Drake continues. "Bizarre, I know. We think there's a radical branch of the company separate from the majority. Most of their forces lie in Iran."

     Iran. The country America would send me to if I hadn't been rescued. I am reminded of the children who never made it. That I was the only one. My teeth clench to keep the tears at bay. I am mindful of Oscar's observations. He is almost as observant as me. Almost.

     "Are you saying their entire group is divided?" The information could be valuable or even used as leverage. If someone could spy on them, it would help one hundred times more than the resources they already have. But I have to remind myself not to get too absorbed in the League. Not to make emotional attachments to the people. If I can convince myself they're all like Drake, it would be easier to walk away from it all.

     Oscar wrinkles his nose, thinking. "I mean, that's a possibility. What do you know about them?"

     I shrug, unsure of what to say. "They came on the news a lot. The corporation's leader loved making promises and hearing his own voice."

     The two men exchange knowing looks, and I briefly wonder if they've established a telepathic link without me knowing.

     Oscar fumbles around with the bag, stuffing bottled water and granola bars into it. I realize it's actually a backpack. One with many zippers. "You two are heading to Whitehorse. It's about a week's walk from here—"

     "Walk? We're walking there?"

     My words don't surprise anyone, much less myself. Drake gives me an annoyed look.

     "Unless you'd rather me carry you, we are walking."

     "I'll pass." Though I would like nothing more than to get there as quickly as possible, we both uphold a truce to get Oscar to confess. Like he said earlier: It's not because we're going to be friends.