Becca nodded, but she didn’t look completely convinced. She’d told the lead driver where she thought the prison was, based on our return journey. I was glad she’d been paying attention, because there was no way I’d ever find it again.
After a long time, shouts up ahead made us stand and look over the truck cab. A sudden panic gripped me: there it was. I’d recognize it anywhere—the collection of broken-down gray buildings, the tall chain-link fence with razor wire on top. I couldn’t believe I was back here. Then I thought of the beaten, hungry kids inside.
The last time I’d approached this place, I’d been looking for my sister, determined to find her at any cost. Now I grabbed her hand, felt her fingers tighten around mine. We’d made it this far together. We could go farther.
My breath caught in my throat as I imagined the confrontation we’d soon face. Would Strepp be there? Would she sic the guards on us? Our cell was made up of farmers: the most extreme argument I’d ever seen had been Mr. Fenston yelling at Mrs. Parker to “move her gol’ dang tractor” out of his cornfield.
“I hope this isn’t a huge mistake,” I muttered to Becca. “Maybe we should have thought this through more.”
“Too late, Careful Cassie,” she whispered. “Time to be heroes.”
Within minutes we’d arrived at the gates.
It didn’t take more than a couple seconds to see that my fears were justified. Something was very, very wrong.
105
BECCA
CASSIE AND I WERE STANDING in the back of the pickup, holding on to its metal frame. The closer we got to the crazy house, the more the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
“What the hell?” I said, as our convoy came to an ungraceful stop at the gates.
I’d expected guards with machine guns. I’d expected gates shut and locked with heavy chains.
These gates were wide open. Wide open, and hanging off their hinges, as if they hadn’t been used in a long, long time.
Cassie and I jumped down from the truck and ran closer.
Someone got out of a Hopper and looked at us. “Is this the place?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
“This is weird. There’s no tire tracks,” Cassie said, pointing to the dirt and tumbleweed-covered ground.
“What is this?” someone asked. “This place is abandoned!”
“No,” I said. “It just looks that way. Let’s see what’s inside!” As I led the way to the main building, I noticed the Provost standing outside his car, leaning against it. He’d looked pretty panicky when the mob had insisted on coming here. Finding this seemingly abandoned building had cheered him up.
I stopped dead about ten feet away from the main door, which was also open. Bits of trash were blowing around, and dust had filtered inside. Cautiously, expecting to be set upon at any second, I peeped inside. Cassie joined me, a confused frown on her face.
“It looks completely different. Unused,” she whispered, shaking her head. “But this is definitely it.” She reached out and hit a light switch. Nothing happened.
We took several steps inside, still waiting for alarms to sound, guards to come running. But the place was as silent and empty as Pa’s bedroom at home. The air was stale and dry, the only sounds were the wind whistling through deserted rooms and the echoes of our feet as we continued to search.
We found nothing. No prisoners, no Strepp, no classrooms, nothing. Just one empty room after another. The auditorium held bleachers but no canvas-floored ring, no stains of blood. The mess hall held only a few overturned chairs and tables, some broken windows, and a bird’s nest above one air-conditioning duct.
“The tunnel!” Cassie cried, and we ran through the kitchen to the hallway beyond. It was just the same, with rows of doors, but when we got to the end, the very end, there was no door at all. Just a blank wall.
Scowling, I went back to the last door and opened it, in case we were remembering wrong. This room was empty. No crates and certainly no hole in the wall.
Outside in the hallway, Cassie and I just looked at each other, and then I slammed my fist against the wall where the door should have been. “Goddamnit!” I cried. “This is impossible! It doesn’t make sense!”
“You’re right,” said the smooth, oily voice of the Provost as he walked down the hallway toward us. “This is impossible. It doesn’t make sense.”
I gave him my best slit-eyed glare, but inside, my brain was reeling with the craziness of it all. We had just been here. We really did have those experiences. I still had a lump on my head from a tree root, and Cassie’s finger had been fractured from punching Strepp. So what the hell was happening?
106