Impurities

Twenty Three

Our roommate was a middle-aged British nurse with wavy, black hair and plump lips. Her name was Evie. Although it usually took a long time for people to grow on me, Evie was an exception. The main reason: she was an instant hit with Goose.

The moment Zima introduced us, the baby squealed and begged to be put in her arms. Admittedly, I got a little jealous. I was used to being the only one she wanted. Zima had playfully elbowed me, arching a brow as I suspiciously eyed the pair of bonding gigglers.

It was now an hour later and Zima was insisting I join him for a tour of the underground Patriot camp. I didn't want to leave Goose, but the ever affectionate Evie assured me she would look after the baby. In spite of my protests, I somehow found myself being led out of the cramped, concrete room and into the hall, no toddler in tow.

"Evie will make sure she's safe," Zima promised. His eyes were gentle, traced with a calm I hadn't seen in the time we'd come to know each other. "Don't worry, Flora. These people are here because they want to help."

"I know," I said.

I trusted these people—the Patriots—because he trusted them. Zima's judgment was what had freed me and Goose in the first place, so what kind of an idiot would I be to misplace that now?

My eyes swept over the dimly lit corridor while we leisurely walked. His hand brushed mine, making my palm instinctively clench and turn away. I couldn't help but feel jumpy; we were suddenly part of a new world. I had to grow accustomed to the lack of constant threats, abuse, and pressure.

"What are we doing here, Zima?" I asked, slowly lifting my gaze.

His forehead creased in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"How long are we here? What are our roles?"

"You are going to rest. And heal. That is your job."

I didn't like when he dodged my questions. "And what is your job?"

"Ah..." Sighing, he rubbed his callused palms on his pants. "I am in charge of rescue operations."

"Rescue?"

"Yes. I will send teams to infiltrate camps and rescue people. Like you and Goose."

A rescue mission. Was that all I meant to him? Some helpless American who needed to be saved? I swallowed my pride down and silenced my thoughts. So what if he did? I was a helpless American who needed to be saved. At least, I had been. Now I could choose to be helpful.

"Is that safe?" I questioned.

"Mostly, yes."

"Mostly?"

He nodded and turned right down another bleak, cement hall. This one was narrower and shorter than the other, which I assumed was the main branch. Half a dozen rooms flanked either side of the hall. We entered the second on the left though a doorless threshold.

Alex was perched on a rickety metal stool beside a rectangular metal table. She hardly noticed our entrance, as she was bantering with Lizzie. Only when we moved into the light did their heads turn.

"Hello, again," Alex greeted. "Ready for your tour, Sarge?"

While Zima nodded, I tried to figure the nickname. That wasn't the first time she'd called him that. Was it short for something? Or was it an inside joke? I'd always hated inside jokes. Nothing made someone feel more left out than missing an inside joke.

"Excellent." She clapped her hands together before raking them through her short hair. Her fingers were long but thick around the knuckles, almost in a masculine way. "Are you joining us, Liz?"

"I think so," the blonde woman consented, winking at me. "I like these two. They're nice."

Alex and Zima headed our small group out of the room. Lizzie attempted to make small talk with me, but I had something else on my mind.

"So," I asked, "how do you all know each other?"

No one answered at first. Zima finally glanced over his shoulder at me.

"Organizations like the Patriots have existed in many countries across the last few decades," he answered. "When the Russian Peace Corps recruited me, I found other soldiers who were discontent. They told me about the various organizations. I managed to go to a few meetings without getting caught."

"I'm the only one he knows here," Alex piped. "Almost everyone else here was recruited in the last few weeks."

"Like me." A friendly smile slipped across Lizzie's face, though it seemed to be a permanent fixture.

"And how did you all get into the States after the invasion?"

Crossing her arms over her thin chest, Alex looked up at Zima and said, "By sea. Submarines. Boats."

"Airplanes would have been too obvious?" It sounded more like a statement than a question on my lips.

They all nodded.

"And how did you"—I gestured to Lizzie—"meet Alex and the others?"

"Well," she answered thoughtfully, "I met Alex and Carson here, at Camp South. Braden is from Germany too, so we have known each other for years, since the anti-Russian movement developed."

"Braden is the red-head?"

She snickered. "He prefers strawberry-blonde."

"I see," I remarked with a grin. It felt good to smile. Lizzie helped it come naturally. "You know, you remind me of someone."

"Really? Who?"

Callie's face appeared in my mind. The image was washed away with another, one of her aiming a gun to my head and pulling the trigger. After all we'd been through, I couldn't look past that. It had been the last time I would see her—possibly for the rest of our lives—but it hadn't been the farewell anyone would hope to share with their best friend.

I never knew a person could change so much. That someone could evolve from being the kindest soul to a heartless machine.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I willed the memories away. I didn't want to remember her like that.

"Someone I used to know," I finally answered. "Someone I used to care very much about."

Lizzie squeezed my shoulder as our group turned down another hall. Alex began speaking, explaining the importance of something, but my thoughts were far away, in another time, in a different world.