Whole regiments are surrounding the three recycling stations that have their tubing intact and snipers are positioned in their towers. “We can shoot,” I tell Jude Caffrey. He dips his head, as if to say, of course you can, and points to Recycling Station North. “Go with Ronan,” he says.
We bolt toward the station and hurdle hastily erected sandbags. A soldier on the door recognizes Ronan, lets him through, and we take the winch to the top. My heart thrums so loudly in my ears I can almost hear it over the gunfire. All I can think about are my aunt and uncle, and Bea and Jazz, who’ll suffocate if we don’t stop Sequoia’s troopers from blowing up the pod’s tubes. It’s what the Ministry always feared, what they told people terrorists might do, and at The Grove we laughed at their fearmongering.
At the top, we dash from the winch and onto a balcony, where we throw ourselves onto our stomachs and inspect the ground below through the scopes of our rifles. Vanya’s troopers have appeared from the west and are advancing on the stations. Only their helmets and shields, fashioned from old car doors, protect them. Occasionally one of them falls to the ground, but the dead and injured are trodden over and the troop continues. Ministry soldiers are taking cover behind the sandbags and firing continuous rounds of ammo; the Sequoians are undaunted.
The clunking zip appears to my right as it loops the pod. It fires again at our station and for a few seconds the building buckles. Silas, Ronan, and I gape at one another wondering, for one horrifying moment, if the whole thing will topple to the ground and us with it. But the damage is superficial and the building quickly stops shuddering.
Ronan elbows me. “What are you waiting for?” he says. He has eyes the color of steel and the bearing of someone used to war.
I look through the scope again. To avoid the debris from the station the Ministry soldiers have broken ranks, giving Vanya’s troopers time to dart forward and leap over the sandbags. Guns are fired, but all the soldiers are suddenly forced to use knives and the butts of their rifles to protect themselves. One of the Sequoians throws a Ministry soldier to the ground and repeatedly pounds his head against the ground. My stomach heaves. I take aim and fire. The trooper lets the soldier go and clutches his side. He pulls off his helmet. It isn’t a he at all. I’ve shot Wren. She falls, like a heavy lead pipe, into the dirt. Within minutes other troopers have trampled over her and if she was alive after being shot, she isn’t now.
“I’ve killed Wren,” I tell Silas.
He squints. “It’s her or my parents.” I hate the truth of this. I hate all the killing and the weighing of one life against another. When will it be over? I need it to be over. I can’t live in a world like this anymore.
“They’re too close to the tower. I can’t get a good shot,” Ronan says, standing up. “And if they break in at the bottom they could use the emergency staircase to get to the control room. We’ll never hold them off from here.”
We jump up and follow him. Was Ronan one of the soldiers I was shooting at a few weeks ago when the Ministry destroyed The Grove? I am a turncoat, I realize, fighting side by side with an enemy. But today we fight together to protect the pod and the people we love.
And that seems the right thing to do.