The Law and the Codas

Chapter Fourty

The wind howls past me as I wrench the doors open. Fueled by adrenaline and the urgency to get the hell out of here before Sect police swarm the area, I toss the gun back into the van, jump down, and beeline for the nearest alley. Luckily, the road behind the van was all but deserted, thanks in part to the commotion at its front.

Sanctuary. Code for a smaller branch of the Collective that David called his closest acquaintances. He'd told me about them during our time in the basement lab, while he watched the Elysium cook and I'd spun around on my stool trying to look nonchalant while my heartbeat raced inside of me, like it always had when I'd been around him for extended periods of time.

They hadn't wanted to work with the Law, but instead of defecting, which Della would have taken as a declaration of war, they stayed within the Collective-whole, dealing weapons, and less-sought after drugs. All the knowledge David had imparted to me during our time together, coupled with the note he'd left me, provided me with a future.

If only I could get there.

Though it's hard to run, and my ankle screams in protest, I will every ounce of determination I have to push myself further. I clip around corners, weave in and out of crowds of zombified people, all whose faces are shadowed by the familiar black band of the Network. Sanctuary. Sanctuary. Sanctuary. The one word plays over and over in my head, morphing into a mantra that provided me with enough hope to propel myself past my limits.

Body aching, head screaming, I continued down the street, dodging overhead neons and adverts as they flit around in the open space between building and plate. There's a noticeable lack of guards, but given that we'd made our decisions -- that half of us were Graduating and us failures were being disposed of -- there really wasn't a need for heightened security protocols.

As the road splits off in front of me, the building I'd been scouring for comes into view. It's nothing special, then again, resistance headquarters never were. It's a simple brick building, two, three stories high, with boarded-up windows and a falling awning over a front door that looked more covered in filth than I had been after my trek through the sewer.

I gasp and stop, all the forward momentum causing me to lurch. A few green neons flicker on the building. Sanctuary, they spell as they flicker on and off. I look around me, just in case, though everyone who had access had their heads in the Aviary Network, perusing the latest news or connecting with relatives on the other side of the nation. Fighting against the urge to cry as relief washes over me, I straighten, push my bangs out of my eyes, and make for the little, red door of Sanctuary.

...

Unlike most doors these days, that was accessible by a swiped key card or some kind of physical identification, the door to Sanctuary requires a knock. So I do. Three knocks, one after another, to make sure whoever was inside couldn't pretend to hear me. Nothing.

I knock again. Again and again, until my knuckles crack and a trickle of blood run down my fingertips.

"Come on," I say between gasps. "I knew David. I knew--"

The door rips open. A large man, square-shouldered with a noticeable lack of neck, leers at me from the crack in the door. He eyes me, not in a lewd, grotesque sort of way, but one that was intelligent, probing me for the answers to a slew of questions he hadn't yet asked.

I wipe my bloody knuckles down the front of my shirt and stand to my full height. It wasn't that I was trying to be imposing -- I couldn't if I very well wanted to what with the man in front of me who looked like he'd been made of poured concrete -- but I do want to look respectable for, what could be, the first of many meetings. I wipe the sweat from my forehead and cheeks before extending my hand, which he eyes suspiciously.