rescued her because they suspected her genetic code was sound. Now I will walk there, to the place where, in some ways, it all began.
The truck stops, and Amar shoves the doors open. He holds his gun in one hand and beckons to me with the other. I
jump out behind him.
There are buildings here, but they are not nearly as prominent as the makeshift homes, made of scrap metal and plastic tarps, piled up right next to one another like they are holding one another upright. In the narrow aisles between them are people, mostly children, selling things from trays, or carrying buckets of water, or cooking over open fires.
When the ones nearest to us see us, a young boy takes off running and screams, "Raid! Raid!"
"Don't worry about that," Amar says to me. "They think we're soldiers. Sometimes they raid to transport the kids to orphanages."
I barely acknowledge the comment. Instead I start walking down one of the aisles, as most people take off or shut themselves inside their lean-tos with cardboard or more tarp. I see them through the cracks between the walls, their houses not much more than a pile of food and supplies on one side and sleeping mats on the other. I wonder what they do in the winter. Or what they do for a toilet.
I think of the flowers inside the compound, and the wood floors, and all the beds in the hotel that are unoccupied, and say, "Do you ever help them?"
"We believe that the best way to help our world is to fix its genetic deficiencies," Amar says, like he's reciting it from memory. "Feeding people is just putting a tiny bandage on a gaping wound. It might stop the bleeding for a while, but ultimately the wound will still be there."
I can't respond. All I do is shake my head a little and keep walking. I am beginning to understand why my mother joined Abnegation when she was supposed to join Erudite. If she had really craved safety from Erudite's growing corruption, she could have gone to Amity or Candor. But she chose the faction where she could help the helpless, and dedicated most of her life to making sure the factionless were provided for.
They must have reminded her of this place, of the fringe.
I turn my head away from Amar so he won't see the tears in my eyes. "Let's go back to the truck."
"You all right?"
"Yeah."
We both turn around to head back to the truck, but then we hear gunshots.
And right after them, a shout. "Help!"
Everyone around us scatters.
"That's George," Amar says, and he takes off running down one of the aisles on our right. I chase him into the scrapmetal structures, but he's too quick for me, and this place is a maze—I lose him in seconds, and then I am alone.
As much automatic, Abnegation-bred sympathy as I have for the people living in this place, I am also afraid of them. If they are like the factionless, then they are surely desperate like the factionless, and I am wary of desperate people.
A hand closes around my arm and drags me backward, into one of the aluminum lean-tos. Inside everything is tinted blue from the tarp that covers the walls, insulating the structure against the cold. The floor is covered with plywood, and standing in front of me is a small, thin woman with a grubby face.
"You don't want to be out there," she says. "They'll lash out at anyone, no matter how young she is."
"They?" I say.
"Lots of angry people here in the fringe," the woman says. "Some people's anger makes them want to kill everyone they perceive as an enemy. Some people's makes them more constructive."
"Well, thank you for the help," I say. "My name is Tris."
"Amy. Sit."
"I can't," I say. "My friends are out there."
"Then you should wait until the hordes of people run to wherever your friends are, and then sneak up on them from behind."
That sounds smart.
I sink to the floor, my gun digging into my leg. The bulletproof vest is so stiff it's hard to get comfortable, but I do the best I can to seem relaxed. I hear people running outside and shouting. Amy flicks the corner of the tarp back to see outside.
"So you and your friends aren't soldiers," Amy says, still looking outside. "Which means you must be Genetic Welfare types, right?"
"No," I say. "I mean, they are, but I'm from the city. I mean, Chicago."