The Capture by Tom Isbell Page B

they scramble and duck for cover and try to make themselves invisible.
    At the very end of the procession is a man who wears blaze orange. He has no helmet, no Kevlar vest, just camo pants, an orange vest, and a baseball cap. One side of his face is disfigured, withered from fire. Hoperemembers him from before. The leader.
    The other ATVs disappear from view, but the Man in Orange loops back, stops his vehicle, and climbs off. He is greeted by a lone Crazy: the mayor with the full beard and cowboy hat. They shake hands and begin to speak. Hope and Book are too far away to make out what they’re saying.
    Hope looks at Book. Giant beads of perspiration dot his forehead.
    â€œYou okay?” she asks.
    He nods but says nothing. At just that moment, the Man in Orange steps away from the bearded leader and swivels his head sharply to one side . . .
    . . . and stares right in their direction.
    Book and Hope gasp, pushing themselves against the wall. The Man in Orange continues to look their way, shielding his eyes to get a better look. It’s like he knows they’re there. Like he can sense their breathing. Can sense their fear.
    After a short eternity, the Man in Orange smirks to himself, climbs back on his vehicle, and rides off to join his friends.
    For the longest time Book and Hope seem unable to catch their breath. They only need to look at each other to know they’re both thinking the same thing. Let’s get the hell out of here.

15.
    W E DASHED BACK THROUGH town and met up with the others. A gravel road snaked north from town and we followed it, hugging the shoulder. Tired as I was, my mind was racing. I couldn’t figure out the connection between the Hunters and the Crazies. Why were the Hunters even there? And why were their leaders speaking? It made no sense.
    There was something else I wondered, too, and I hurried to Hope’s side.
    â€œHow’re we going to do it?” I asked.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œFree the Sisters.”
    She shrugged. “How else? The tunnel.”
    â€œEven though it’s flooded?”
    â€œGuess we’ll have to swim again.”
    â€œAnd how many Sisters did you say there were?”
    â€œA hundred and twenty-five. Give or take.” Then her gaze grew distant, her face tight. “The number was always changing.”
    Before I got a chance to ask her what she meant, she quickened her pace, and I was walking by myself again. That was the thing about Hope—that haunted look in her eyes never went away. I hoped to someday find out what it meant.
    We took a nap late that afternoon, folding ourselves in thick blankets of underbrush. When we woke several hours later, we foraged for food. There was an eerie calm as we performed our chores, everyone focused on the coming mission: freeing over a hundred Sisters from Camp Freedom without the Brown Shirts noticing.
    â€œWe four will go into the tunnel,” Hope said over a dinner of mushroom and scallion soup, pointing to the other three Sisters. “We’ll sneak into camp, round up the Sisters from the other barracks, and bring them back through the tunnel.”
    â€œAnd us?” Flush asked.
    â€œYou four will stand watch outside camp.” I was about to protest, but Hope explained. “If you went in, you’d only freak them out.”
    â€œWhat happens if things go wrong?” I asked.
    Hope hesitated before answering. “Get away from here as fast as you can.”
    A quiet fell over the group.
    When darkness came, we set back out, sticking to the dense shadows of the woods. We marched through the night, not stopping until guard towers cut a jagged silhouette against the purple black of the sky. Crawling to the crest of a ridge, we looked down at the camp, and I could tell the mere sight of it made Hope and the other Sisters tense.
    A thin slice of red and orange announced the dawn. We lay and watched, waiting for the camp to come to life. The calm was oddly