Free Strike by D J MacHale Page A

next to us and came to an abrupt stop.
    “Get him in back,” the guard commanded brusquely. “I’ll take you to the infirmary.”
    It was a rare show of humanity from the otherwise heartless guards.
    “Let’s go,” I said to Kent. “Take it slow.”
    “No problem there,” Kent replied.
    I wrapped his right arm around my neck and gently stood up.
    Kent strained not to yell out but said, “Jeez, I can’t breathe!”
    I didn’t know what to do other than to ease him down again. Before I realized what was happening, the guard was kneeling at Kent’s other side.
    “We’ll both lift him,” he said, all business. “Hold him behind his back and under his butt.”
    We both slipped our arms under Kent from opposite sides.
    “Now, lift together. One . . . two . . . three.”
    We both stood up as Kent grit his teeth and did his best to keep from howling. The two of us quickly shuffled to the back of the golf cart, where there was a flatbed for cargo.
    “Easy now,” the guard cautioned.
    We eased Kent over the deck and gently lowered him to the surface.
    “I’m good. . . . I’m good. . . . I’m good. . . .” Kent said, straining. He wasn’t even close to good.
    “Ride in back with him,” the guard said. “Don’t want him falling out.”
    “Thank you,” I said.
    The guard didn’t acknowledge me. He went right to the driver’s side, hopped in, and slowly accelerated. He was careful not to bounce the cart too much, which wasn’t easy as we traveled over the rough dirt roads of the camp.
    “That juice works every time, right?” Kent asked through gritted teeth.
    “You’ll be better by morning,” I said with confidence.
    “Maybe I don’t want to be better,” he said. “Things just keep getting worse, Tucker.”
    It was hard to argue with that.
    “You’re not a quitter,” was all I could think to say. “Stop talking like one. We’re not alone anymore. That’s something.”
    I almost asked the helpful soldier about my mother and Tori but decided not to. I still feared that the Retros would put together that we were the team that destroyed the fleet of planes at Area 51. The less information we gave them about us, the better.
    But I so desperately wanted to know what happened to my mother.
    The trip wasn’t far, but it seemed to take forever because Kent let out a soft squeal of pain each time we hit a bump in the road.
    “You guys took a big chance,” the guard finally said. “Both of you. How old are you? Sixteen?”
    “Fourteen,” I said. “He’s sixteen.”
    “Seventeen,” Kent said.
    The guard sighed and shook his head. “Damn. I don’t believe it. You’re just kids.”
    What
I
couldn’t believe was that this Retro was actually talking to us like we were humans, let alone showing sympathy.
    “I was an idiot,” Kent said through clenched teeth. “I trusted that weasel.”
    “He probably saved your life,” the guard said.
    “Really? By setting me up and then crushing my windpipe?”
    “If he hadn’t, Bova would probably have killed you both.”
    “Why?” I asked. “To make an example?”
    “That,” the guard said, “and because he hates you. All of you. It’s why he volunteered to run this camp. He enjoys making you all suffer.”
    “That’s sick,” I said.
    “That’s Bova,” he replied. “If you want to stay alive, avoid that guy.”
    “Gee, you think?” Kent said with sarcasm.
    “Why are you telling us this?” I asked.
    The guard didn’t answer right away. He must have been thinking hard about what to say.
    “Do you know why you’re forbidden to use your names here?” he asked.
    “To degrade us,” I said.
    “No. They don’t care about you enough to want to degrade you. It’s about us. They don’t want us to see you as real people with personalities and a past. It makes it easier to . . .”
    His voice trailed off.
    “To what? Kill us?” Kent asked.
    The guard didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
    “Why are you helping