Between

Chapter Five

Sector 7 Ill-Born and Dissident Severance Point, Northeastern Corzibar

Wren followed the doctor through a secondary doorway in the tent that she hadn't noticed before, her hands shaking as she pulled aside the fabric. What had Williams seen in the results that had made her so suddenly change her demeanor? She didn't understand why she was being moved, and Williams made no attempts to explain herself. Either way, Wren knew this was out of the ordinary. Nolan would have told her about this part if it had happened to him.

The young woman strode behind Williams, glancing this way and that, noticing the lines of armed Directorate guards that stood on either side of their path. They passed by several more sections of tents, into which Wren's friends and neighbors were being funneled, one by one. They didn't notice her. She couldn't really blame them. Ahead of them lay the beginning of the forest and the edge of Sector 7. It was lined with the enormous dark grey, armored Directorate carriers usually reserved for transporting the guards from one Sector to the next.

Groups of people, both Wren's age and some older, were amassed outside the carrier lineup. They were neatly divided into lines of men and lines of women. All of them looked anxious and uncertain, and those who she could hear talking to others spoke in hushed voices. Those who weren't talking were coughing—the deep, rattly coughs that came only from breathing Corzibar's toxic air.

She could see two Directorate guards stationed at the rear of each one of the carriers. One worked what appeared to be a small hand-operated injection gun, while the other helped individuals—although not especially politely—into the carrier after they had received their injection. But it was the piles of discarded breathing masks at the back of each carrier that made Wren's stomach turn in discomfort and disgust.

"This way," Williams directed, drawing her attention away and gesturing with one arm to a line closer to the end of the row of vehicles. She moved more slowly now, and Wren felt the doctor's hand press her forward from between her shoulder blades. It was hard to tell if the faint quiver she felt in the touch was coming from the doctor herself or simply the motion of walking. They reached the end of the line of women, and Williams took a moment to survey the area before she settled her eyes back on her younger companion.

"When you get in that carrier, don't talk to anyone. Don't draw attention to yourself in any way. This particular carrier is destined for one of the coastal scrubs. Once you're there, just do as you're told."

Unwilling to let the questions in her mind go unspoken, Wren refused.

"I don't understand. What's happened?"

The doctor glanced around again and then Wren followed suit. The Directorate guards at the other carriers still seemed quite preoccupied, and the ones at the carrier she'd be boarding looked at her and Williams but didn't seem bothered by what they saw. Williams fixed her with another stern, unblinking stare.

"You can't stay here."

"But, my family—"

"You can't stay here," the doctor repeated.

Wren felt anger bubbling inside of her, but she didn't have another chance to speak her thoughts. Williams released her shoulder and disappeared into the crowd before she could. Frightened, but trying her best to steel her nerves, the blonde haired woman pivoted and fell more directly into the line of women. Some of them she recognized, friends of her parents and the children of those friends. She glanced around and shivered. If this carrier really was taking them to the Scrubs, it meant that all these people were Ill-Borns. Including Wren. It meant that, even though Nolan and her parents were genetically pure, Wren's new designation would endanger them all.

Her chest twinged at the thought, and then she remembered Foster.

He did not seem to be among them, and Wren could only hope he had been smart enough to lie about their relationship as she had done. If he hadn't...

She shivered again when it started to rain.

She had to get back to her family—and to Foster—before the Directorate did. But what could she do?

A rough hand took hold of her wrist and jerked her forward. The shiny black mask of Directorate guard, contrasting sharply with the iridescent white of the rest of his uniform, angled down at her for a moment—something she hadn't noticed him do with any of the other women so far. Though she wanted desperately to know what the gun in his hand was, she held her tongue. Instead, her eyes scanned over his mask, taking note of a small crack in the upper right hand corner.

Don't draw attention to yourself.

"Sector Residency Number?" came a gruff voice from behind the mask.

"1927-7."

Evidently not trusting her, the guard jerked her forward by the hair and looked at the back of her neck to confirm the number. When he allowed her to lift her head back to its normal position, Wren did not miss the sensation of gloved fingertips trailing down the back of her neck and under her chin. Sensing the intent, however rude, behind the gesture, she stared into the blackness as though it would peel away and allow her to see the face behind it.

Abruptly, the guard closed those fingers around her chin to hold her still while the other hand thrust the injection gun against her jugular and pulled the trigger. It hissed and Wren staggered a few steps at the wave of pain that jolted through her. Her fingers flew to the site of the injection and instinctively pressed to stop the bleeding, but the guard grabbed her again and cauterized the wound with a red-hot coil on the opposite end of the gun. She gave a choked cry of pain as he shoved her at the other guard standing a few feet behind him. As the other faceless man took hold of her under the armpit and practically dragged her into the canvas-covered bed of the carrier, Wren's head darted from side to side in the hopes of catching a glance of the first guard.

"Alright, Big Eyes, move along!" shouted a third guard from the interior of the carrier, and he shoved Wren into the mass of women and down onto a hard wooden bench. He shoved a clump of fabric into her mouth and tied another strip around the back of her head—a gag. In the confusion of moving onto the carrier, she hadn't noticed that all the other women were wearing them. It seemed Doctor Williams wasn't the only one concerned about the potential exchange of words. Her wrists were bound behind her back a few seconds later.

Three additional women were loaded on after her, and all three were given the same treatment—bound by the wrists and gagged. Wren willed herself to keep calm as the two outside Directorate guards climbed into the carrier themselves and then dropped the rear canvas. The only light now came from a single, decrepit bulb dangling loosely from the center of the roof. The man that had bound her slapped on the back window of the carrier from inside, and the vehicle roared to life.