Free The Prey by Tom Isbell Page B

anything to protect their father.”
    Hope flinches at his name. It’s been forever since she’s heard it. “I’m telling the truth.”
    â€œHmm. You know, the longer you lie, the more I’llbe forced to bring you in here.” Then: “So which of the two of you is feeling brave?”
    Hope doesn’t hesitate. “I am,” she says.
    â€œYou sure?”
    She nods fiercely.
    â€œFine. Then one full dose to this one”—he motions to Hope—“and half a dose to the other.”
    â€œWait! That’s not fair! Give Faith the full dose and me the half!”
    â€œI would, but I think I’d rather keep you around. And then maybe you’ll tell me what I want to know.”
    He nods to the techs, and they pick up two syringes—one full, one half full—and move toward the beds.
    â€œYou can’t do this!” Hope screams, thrashing against her restraints.
    â€œI think we just did,” the doctor responds.
    The needle jabs Hope’s arm and she senses the cure—the full dose of it—entering her bloodstream. She feels utterly powerless to help her sister.
    The medicine’s coolness spreads down her arms like a drifting fog, and before she knows it she can no longer tell what’s real and what’s a dream. She thinks of Faith, and her mother and father, realizing that none of them can help her now. She has a memory of the boy in the barn, remembering the strong grip of his hand, the powerful kindness in his eyes. Maybe he can come to her rescue, she thinks. Maybe he will magicallyappear and cut through these bindings and lift her up, her body pressed against his chest as he carries her to safety. Maybe . . .
    She falls into a deep and satisfying sleep.

17.
    I WAS ON MY bunk reading The Art of War when I heard the shriek of whistles. Flush came dashing in.
    â€œEmergency roll call!” he cried out.
    Guys were scrambling to get in place and I ran to my assigned spot on the infield just as Sergeant Dekker strolled down my row, checking names off a clipboard. I glanced at June Bug and Red, their chests heaving, doing their best to hide the fact that they’d been up to something. Dekker stopped, eyed us coldly, then continued on his way.
    What was going on? Were they on to us?
    Sergeant Dekker assumed a pose of attention. No one spoke. Fifteen minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two. Dinnertime came and went. LTs shook from standing so long.
    Banks of floodlights were suddenly switched on, bathing us in harsh, white light. Perspiration edged down the small of my back.
    When Major Karsten and Colonel Westbrook finally emerged from the log cabin fortress, they were followed by someone I had never seen before: a tall, blond woman with high cheekbones and a severe gaze. An ankle-length coat hung from her shoulders. Westbrook leaned on the porch railing, his fingers biting into wood.
    â€œAs you all know,” he began, “there is one road to freedom. And on that road are the following milestones: Obedience, Self-Sacrifice, and Love of the Republic. The three sides to the triangle.” He pointed to his badge. His voice was cool, emotionless, as hard to read as his coal-black eyes.
    â€œIt has come to our attention that some LTs have not been as . . . obedient . . . as they could be. This we cannot tolerate. Is that understood?”
    Each of the LTs gave his head an enthusiastic nod.
    His gaze swept across us. Was it my imagination or did he linger an especially long time on me? The door behind him swung open and two Brown Shirts stepped out. In between their muscled arms was a limp LT, his head lowered like a rag doll’s. When Westbrook grabbed the LT’s hair and jerked his head upward, we saw who it was.
    Cat.
    He was nearly unrecognizable; his face was puffy and bruised, eyes swollen shut, and splotches of dried blood stained his cheeks. It looked like he’d been beaten within an inch of