Free Strike by D J MacHale Page B

us?” I asked.
    “Not everybody believes in this war,” he replied. “We weren’t given a whole lot of choice. What I saw you guys do back there, you know, standing up to Bova and then running out to help your friend? It gives me hope.”
    “Hope?” I said. “Hope for what?”
    The soldier thought for a moment and then said, “Humanity.”
    “What is it you Retros are trying to do? Reset civilization by wiping out most of it? It’s crazy, you know.”
    “Crazier than you can imagine,” he said.
    I looked to Kent, who gave me a wide-eyed shrug.
    “Who’s calling the shots?” I asked. “The Air Force is just a weapon. Who is leading them?”
    “You don’t want to know,” the guard said.
    “Well, yeah we do.”
    “We’re here,” the guard announced and stopped the golf cart in front of the infirmary building where I first woke up.
    I jumped from the back of the cart and ran to face the guard as he got out of the vehicle.
    “Tell me the truth,” I said. “Who is running this show?”
    The guard shook his head.
    “I can’t tell you that,” he said. “It would only make things tougher for you. Besides, you wouldn’t believe me.”
    “Then tell me why we have to build all of these barracks? What’s going to happen here?”
    The guard looked around wistfully.
    “The answer you’re looking for is coming. Soon these buildings are going to be packed with more of us. Many more. That’s what this is all about, after all. It’s the whole point.”
    “So it’s like . . . an invasion?” I asked.
    The guard chuckled ironically. “Yeah. That’s exactly what it is.”
    “A few days ago I asked one of your officers who you were. His answer was, ‘We’re you.’ Those were his exact words. ‘We’re you.’ What did he mean?”
    “Exactly what he said,” the guard replied.
    The door to the infirmary flew open and two more medical types came out wheeling a gurney.
    “Look for the Sounders,” the guard said quickly so that the others couldn’t hear. “Stay alive and find them. They’re the only chance you have.”
    The guard stepped back and made an odd gesture. He put his right hand over his heart, but then dropped it quickly.
    “What?” I asked, confused.
    “Quiet!” one of the medical guys barked.
    Our conversation was done.
    The two medical personnel pulled the gurney up to the golf cart and quickly lifted Kent’s body to load him on.
    “Ahh,” he screamed in pain. “Easy. I think I’ve got a couple of busted ribs.”
    The medical guys didn’t care. To them, Kent was just a slab of breathing meat.
    “I’m staying with him,” I said.
    “Go back to your unit,” one of the technicians barked curtly.
    “No, let him stay,” the guard who brought us commanded. “They’ve earned it.”
    “Earned it?” the technician said with disdain. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    The guard strode up to the two medical guys and stared them down. It was clear who the alpha dog was. It looked as though the guards who dealt with the prisoners were more badass than the soldiers who worked in the hospital.
    “It means I ordered you to let them stay together,” the guard said coldly. “Am I going to have a problem with you?”
    The soldier backed down and shrugged.
    “Whatever. They’ll be out of here by morning anyway.”
    The two soldiers wheeled Kent inside and I followed right behind. Before going through the door I looked back at the guard. He was already in the golf cart, driving away. Still, I was glad he added one more piece to this strange puzzle.
    Sounders.
    What were Sounders and how could they give us hope? Instead of getting real answers from the guard, he had only deepened the mystery. At least our few minutes with him proved that not all of the Retros were cold-blooded killers. Just most of them.
    The soldiers wheeled Kent past the double row of patients until we came to an empty bed. A minute later Kent was lying down with an IV in his arm.
    Before leaving, one of the