Rise

fifteen

started outside and into the rain, holding their bags above their heads as they ran. I followed behind them, urging them to move faster, to weave through the alleyway to the abandoned store, where Beatrice and the others waited, their figures barely visible beneath the ripped awning.

I splashed through the ankle-deep puddles, letting the rain soak me again. When I looked back the soldier was emerging from the side of the building, two more men in tow as they started after us. As soon as I reached the store I sprinted out front, ignoring the sound of the Jeeps as they sped south on the road, toward us, their headlights illuminating the dark.

fifteen

THERE WAS NO RELIEF FROM THE RAIN. IT CAME FAST AND hard, pelting my hands, my neck, my face. Streams flooded the Outlands, burrowing into the sand, turning the ground to a thick, heavy sludge. When I glanced back, Clara had pulled off her shoes and was wading, knee-deep, through a puddle. Behind her, the rest of the girls trudged on, nine in all, their jumpers soaked through.

"Hurry now," Beatrice called out, ushering them along. Her short, gray coat hung heavy on her shoulders, the rain dripping off the hem.

Sarah was yelling to a girl toward the rear of the group who'd stalled. I turned, noticing it was the girl with freckles-Bette. "We can't go to the Schools," Sarah kept repeating, as she pulled Bette toward the wall. "Beatrice said it, too. It's not safe anymore. You have to just trust them."

The Jeeps had stopped on the road. As the soldiers climbed out, they were deliberate in their movements, thinking they had time, that we had nowhere to go, the wall just a quarter mile off. I sped up and the girls followed, weaving down one last street until the motel came into view up ahead, the pool filled with a murky gray liquid, the rain rippling its surface.

"We're not going to make it," Clara said as she ran beside me, her bare feet sinking into the sand. "There's too many of them and there's too many of us." She swiped the wet hair out of her face.

"Just hurry," I said as I pulled open the chain gate, the girls filing past me. A few held their bags over their heads, their shoes knotted together, the laces slung over their shoulder. They kept looking to me, then back at the soldiers, as they started toward the front of the motel. "Bring them into the one marked eleven."

I ducked through the gate, watching as the soldiers started down the road toward us. There were ten of them, maybe more. We only had a few minutes.

When the last girl passed into the room I followed behind her, weaving around a rack of clothes that had been covered with a clear plastic tarp. The room smelled of mildew, the carpet peeling up at the baseboards. Boxes of clothes covered a large chest against the wall, the shirts draped over the sides, arranged by color. The lock was a loose, pathetic thing, but I pulled the chain over the door anyway, sealing it shut.

"It's not here," Clara yelled, as she opened the closet in the back. Her voice startled the rest of the girls. They pressed against the walls, watching me. "It's the wrong room."

A mattress was propped against the window, half blocking the view. I pulled back a small sliver of curtain, watching as the soldiers started into the motel's entranceway, working their way down the row of rooms. I moved quickly, dragging the wood chest against the door.

There were wet, muddy footprints all over the carpet, but it was impossible to say if they were ours or not. Another mattress sat at an angle on the floor, one corner of it bent against the wall. I checked the bathroom, the closets, the small space between the dressers. I wondered if I could've read the map incorrectly, or if this wasn't the motel Moss had described.

"They're coming," Beatrice said, her voice frayed by nerves. She let the curtain drop and began pulling at the mattress, maneuvering it so it covered more of the exposed window.