Authors: Kate Wrath
The invisible claw gashes through the metal easily, and it, too,
falls into fragments. I'm spinning in empty darkness. Then I'm
falling. Falling out of the sky toward the pavement. Below me, the
grey expanse of concrete rushes upward like I am a fly it wants to swat.
I tumble and spin. As I do, somewhere against the blue expanse of sky, I
see a slash of white. The tower. I clamp my eyes closed and think
about it. The tower. The tower.
The pain is dull and stabbing and throbbing and crushing all at
the same time. It's like hitting my thumb with a hammer. Only, my
whole body is my thumb. I'm not screaming, now. I'm in too much
pain to scream. I lie still. I can't move. I'm sure that,
with pain this intense, I have to be dying. Make it quick, I think.
Make it quick. I can't do this much longer. I wonder what happens
when you pass the point where you can handle the pain. Death?
Insanity? I feel an earthquake opening inside of me, and I wonder which
of these will emerge from the depths of the crack.
My pain dissects itself into stripes, and then fragments. It
is gone. I gulp air, amazed at the sweetness of relief. I pull
myself up from the pavement, finding myself intact, sit up, and look off into
the distance. There it is.
I'm on my feet and running. There are Sentries in the
streets. They turn and give chase as I whiz by them. Their metal
footsteps pound against the concrete behind me. I run for the door, which
I can see now, ahead of me. I run for all I'm worth. When I reach
it, I dive straight through it, even though it's closed. My body sinks
through like the door is a plane of water, touching my skin lightly, but
allowing me to pass without resistance. Behind me is the crash of
metal. The Sentries cannot follow me here.
I'm in a room now-- a wide-open space with a wooden floor and
beams of sunlight coming in a series of windows along one wall. There are
rough columns holding up the ceiling in places, a raised floor at one end, and
furniture, like someone lives here. On a table is a pair of broken
sungoggles. A sharp stab of pain sinks through me at the sight of
them. I think they're mine. No. They're someone else's.
A mattress is on the floor, wedged into a corner against the windows and a wall
that partitions the space. A book is next to the bed.
I walk to the book and pick it up, turning it over in my
hands. The hard cover is bound in blue cloth, the spine exposed, careful
stitching holding the pages together. I open it. The handwriting is
my own, but the words are indecipherable. Even the letters are a scrawl
of alien symbols. As I squint at them, they begin to move, to march
around-- ants on a page. Rearranging themselves. Looking at them
makes me feel dizzy. I wince, blink, look away. My eyes catch a
glimpse of city through the wide windows. I'm looking down on it, from
high up. Buildings tall and short, pressing together into a mass that
falls away to the horizon. Tucked into them is green, deep green, and
just there, just at the edge, a sparkling string of silver that makes me stop
breathing.
I don't have time to consider it, because the ant-letters have
marched right off my page. They rise into my field of vision.
Growing. Joining together. They build themselves into a swarming
mass, a writhing nest that flushes to metallic grey. I take a step
backward, and it has already become as big as me. But it's not done
growing.
Realizing with horror what it's becoming, I look around for
something-- some weapon to fight it with. There is nothing. It's
almost finished. Larger. I can see the shape of the Sentry, but the
ants are still wriggling into place. Their bodies have a finality about
them that says they will soon solidify. Without waiting, I lunge toward
it. It stands more than half a person taller than me, but somehow I reach
it's chest. I sink my fingers into it, like claws. Like I mean to
pull its heart out. The metal creature shrieks and writhes away from me.
The ants scatter with a burst of speed, run over my whole body. They
sting me. Their bites are black poison, running into me, surging toward
my vital organs. Even though I'm in agony, I reach inside myself and
watch the poison, the way it moves and pulses, the way it effects each cell of
my body. I can see the molecular structure. What it's doing.
How it does it. How it was made.
The unseen claw swipes at my world again, and I'm falling.
This time there is no landing. Just dizziness that resolves to a cold day
with melting piles of snow spotting the pavement. One of them, near me,
has a hole in the middle. My eyes wander over it, then look up, even
though they know what they will see.
Oscar's gaze meets mine as the Sentry moves toward him. I
scream his name and lunge for him. The words are on his lips:
I love
you.
Jonas' arms hold me back. I thrash, and writhe, but this
time I don't scream. I duck and twist at the same time, and somehow I am
free. Somehow I am running toward them. Toward Oscar. Toward
the Sentry. Now, I am screaming. A primal scream, filled with
interminable fury.
The claw swipes, and everything falls away.
***
"No," I whisper, as Miranda pulls the helmet from my
head. I'm blinking furiously against the onrush of light in my suddenly-functioning
eyes. Blurs of color run together, but I can't make any sense of
it. "I'm fine," I insist, though even the words sound
strangled. My whole body is trembling. I'm cold.
Exhausted. My head hurts, and the ache is steadily increasing. I consider
taking my words back, but I was so close. I can still do this. Why
has she pulled me out?
Miranda does not reply. When the colors finally move
together to form a picture, I understand. Miranda is frozen, pale and
wide-eyed, still at the console. Looming over me, frowning, is
Matt. Five other people are behind him in the room. Four of them
are his men. The fifth, black-eyed and bloodied, is Donegan.
Matt peers at me, no doubt considering yet again what to do with
me. Now would probably be a good time to say something funny, make him
laugh, or at least, amuse him. Instead, I look down and away. I'm
already thinking about Oscar again. How I was so close to saving him.
Miranda clears her throat, finding her voice. It
shakes. "We were just-- w-- Eden thought maybe we could use it to
help her. You know. To forget."
Matt glances from her to me. His eyes flicker briefly with
something before his gaze hardens again. I'm not sure if it's sympathy or
pity. Either will do.
"Get up," he says.
I move quicker than my body wants to, and end up stumbling into
him. He catches me, holds me until I start to pull away, then he lets me
slide easily from his grip. I step away from him, brushing my hair out of
my face.
"Since you're here, anyway," Matt says, studying
Miranda, "maybe you'd like to help with this one." His gaze
flicks to Donegan, whose face is draining of blood.
Miranda's eyes move to her nemesis-- hungry, but hesitant.
She looks like she's going to be sick. She swallows, and nods slowly,
looking at Matt. "Yeah," she says, her voice cold.
"I would."
The men strap Donegan into the chair easily despite his
struggling. Once they have everything tightened down, he's motionless,
his muscles taut and straining, but ineffective. His eyes are wide and
rolling. He grunts and growls as the electrode helmet slides into place.
I watch him from a few steps behind Matt. Maybe I should
feel sorry for him, but I'm really just upset he's chosen this moment to get
caught. This moment. I should still be in that chair. I
glance at Matt, though I can only see the side of his face. Maybe I can
talk him into letting me use the chair when he's done. I might have to
tell him the truth, but I don't care. I was close. So close to
saving Oscar.
In my mind, I am running. A few more steps. Just a few
more steps. I replay this moment for an eternity, standing there, not
seeing anything. So close. I can convince Matt. I have
to. I lean forward to try to see his face, but shadows fall across it,
hiding his expression.
Donegan is writhing within his restraints, slobber slipping down
his chin onto his shirt. He's slick with sweat, face contorted. The
sight is sickening, but not enough to put me off the chair. I move my
eyes to Miranda, whose face is turned downward, focused, intense,
anticipatory. She moves her arm, and Donegan stops writhing, slumps
against his bonds.
"Shall we try this again?" asks Matt quietly.
"Names. Who are you working with?"
My world slams to a halt, leaving me spinning. I manage not
to fall over; choke off the noise of protest while it's still building in my
throat.
Donegan gurgles, spittle and blood emerging from his mouth.
He coughs, and sputters.
Matt waits.
When Donegan has finally stopped choking, his face scrunches into an
expression of despair. "No," he whines, though it's more a
plea. "No, no, no."
Matt's face hardens. He glances at Miranda.
I can't breathe. Donegan is about to break. She's
about to break him. A vicious delight shades her eyes as they dart across
her control panel, deciding how to hurt him, how much force to use. She
doesn't realize what she's about to do. And I have no way to stop her.
I slip quietly toward the door, move into the darkness of the corridor.
The black cell of the tunnel sends panic shooting straight through me, but I
keep moving. The fear that rises within me now is a different one, even
more potent. It is water filling the hold of a sinking ship. It is
the last thing in this world that matters to me, slipping beyond reach.
I tear through the streets, dodging people, jumping obstacles,
skidding around corners with my feet sliding in the slush. Sometimes, I
glance behind me, but see no sign that anyone has followed. It doesn't
matter, because they'll know where to go soon enough. I have to get there
before them. Have to give Jonas a moment to escape. Even as I run,
I try to think where we can go to hide. But no one hides from Matt.
Not for long. We'll have to keep moving, keep changing places. Even
so, the odds are not in our favor.
I hurtle into the alleyway, making the guard at the door bolt to
his feet, rags swaying. His eyes scan me. "They're
coming," I wring out of myself in ragged breaths. I throw myself
through the door into the warehouse.
Inside, everything is dark, lit only by bleak sunlight that
filters through the dirt-fogged windows. I see Jonas right away, standing
in one of the only pools of light. He's talking to a man I don't know,
while others at a table are pouring over a map. They all look at me.
"They're coming," I say again, though I'm gasping for
breath. "Matt."
Everyone moves at once. I expect them to scatter like
cockroaches in the light. Instead, their movements have a practiced
calmness. They move quickly, but not in panic. They're not
abandoning their current location. They're heading somewhere else.
Jonas strides toward me, his face fixed in a dark look.
"Tell me."
I suck in air and rattle out the general gist of what I
know. "We have to get out of here," I finish
breathlessly. "We have to find a place to hide."
Jonas shrugs away from me, and only then do I realize my fingers
are clawing at his upper arm. He looks toward the door, his face set in
that even, unreadable expression. "Stay here," he says, and
without looking at me, he walks toward the door.
A gust of cold wind whooshes in as he goes out. The door
bangs shut behind him.
Fear seizes hold, freezing me in place. I blink, and try to
breathe. An instant later, my feet mobilize, and I'm running after him.
He glances back when he hears my footsteps, flying down the alley
behind him. "I told you to stay there," he says as I fall in
beside him. "This is--"
The revving roar of the angry engine rises on the cold air, speeds
closer. Wheels screech around a corner. It's upon us. The car
skids to a halt at the end of the alley in front of us, rear engine
steaming. The truck blocks the alley opening behind us. We're
trapped in this tunnel between them. But Jonas just keeps walking
forward, so I go with him.
The car doors open. Matt, and three of his men, climb out
and form up in front of us. The three have their hands on their guns,
though none of them have drawn yet. I hear footsteps on the pavement far
behind us. There are at least six of them there. And more on their
way, for sure.
Matt squints at us. The way he holds his shoulders, the
tightness in his jaw, the way he almost starts pacing-- he's fuming,
livid. When he begins to speak, I expect him to address Jonas, but he
doesn't. He levels one finger at me. "I'm done with you,
Eden," he says, his voice pained and thick with anger. "I gave
you every chance, and you do
this
to me?"
When I ran here, I knew Matt would want to kill me for it. I
expected his wrath, falling from the sky like fire. I expected guns and
knives and explosions. My death, probably. But the personal
accusation-- somehow I missed that in my scenario. And I missed the fact
that it would actually make me feel guilty. I look at him, unable to
speak. Unable to defend myself. Because Matt
has
given me
every chance. He took in Oscar and fed him, when I couldn't. He
tried to keep me from starving, too. I've never given anything back to
him, and it looks like I never will.
"She's not actually part of it," Jonas says, somehow
managing to make his voice completely level and calm. "I'm the one
you came here for."
Matt has his gun drawn and aimed at Jonas' head in an
instant.
Jonas stares back at him steadily. "Not your best
idea."
I glance between the two of them. Matt's grimace.
Jonas' intense gaze. All I have is my knife. Can I manage to draw
and throw it before Matt can kill Jonas? Or should I create a diversion
so Jonas can run? Would he? Would he leave me?
"Don't worry," Matt says. "You're going to
live at least a few hours more, until you tell me everything you know about
Grey. Her, on the other hand..." His gun swings toward me.
There is a click. Lots of them, actually. Matt
freezes. Only his eyes move upward, to the roofline.
My eyes follow his, darting up. Standing along the roof,
looking down on us, are dozens of armed men. I turn to the other side of
the alley, and there are more. Across and behind Matt, still more are
silhouetted against the sky like posts in a fence. All their guns are
trained on him.
Matt thrusts his gun toward me, but looks at Jonas.
"You want to keep her alive," he says, smiling. "Now don't
you."
Jonas doesn't even glance at me. He's still deadly calm,
staring at Matt. "It's the only way you make it out of here."
Matt's eyes narrow, but he backs away, toward the car. In a
moment, the doors have slammed shut and the vehicle screeches away down the
street. I close my eyes, and breathe.
Jonas' hand on my arm makes me jump. "Come on," he
says softly, leading me back toward the door. I go with him, but I'm
staring at him as we go, wondering who the hell he has become.
We barely reach the door when Apollon comes barreling down from
the other end of the alley. "I missed the excitement, huh," he
pants. "Anything good?"
Jonas just shakes his head, guiding me through the door.
Inside, we sit at the table. Some of the others sit with
us. I'm starting to recognize their faces, but I don't know their
names. One of them, a redheaded, bearded man with light, light blue eyes,
seems to be in charge of security. There are two shaggy-headed,
brown-haired men that I can't seem to keep straight. They're constantly
leaving and coming back, so I never exactly get which one is which.
There's a blonde boy, too, who seems to have a lot of information. At
least, I think it's a boy. But then, after a while, the mannerisms give
her away. She might be able to pull it off on the streets, but she's too
feminine to make the disguise work in close company. There's something
oddly familiar about her, too. Finally, I place her. She's Sumter's
daughter.
I sit amongst the whirlwind of conversation, missing most of
it. I'm just watching Jonas, the way everyone defers to him, answering
his questions promptly, nodding as he speaks. I'm counting in my head how
many men were on the roof, and replaying Matt's retreat. My body is still
shaking, after-effects of the adrenaline, or maybe the VR machine. Soon,
my eyelids are heavy, but I can't give in to the tiredness. We'll need to
move, before long. We'll need to run.
I'm staring at the floor when the conversation wraps up.
People move away from the table, but I stay, frozen in a haze. I tell
myself to get up, but it doesn't happen. I'm pondering whether my muscles
are really not listening to my brain, or whether I just don't want to, when
warmth caresses my back and shoulders. Jonas wraps the blanket around my
neck and holds it there for just a moment.
I turn my face to the side, though I still can't see him.
"Thanks." My voice is gruff, a mere whisper.
He leaves the blanket in my hands, and starts to turn away.
"We'll leave as soon as--"
The door opens, and two men walk in, escorting Neveah. Now,
I'm out of the chair, running for her, wrapping my arms and my blanket around
her. I hold onto her, and try to stop the tears from leaking out of my
eyes. How could I have forgotten her?
"OK," Jonas says, "let's go." He ushers
us down a hall and into another room, where Apollon is with a group of men, a
bundle of packs at their feet. There's a second door here, that opens
into a side street.
As Neveah and I step through it, she squeezes my hand and gives me
a questioning look. It takes me a second to understand.
I look at Jonas and Apollon, following closely behind us.
"Miranda," I whisper, as we move into the darkness of the
alley. "What about Miranda?"
Jonas presses his hand into my back to urge me forward.
"Keep going, Eden," he whispers. It's the only answer I get.
***
We move from safe house to safe house, never sleeping in the same
place twice. Always, there are others with us. Guarding us.
Bringing and sending information. Carrying out orders. I watch this
strange, surreal universe from a distance that is created inside myself.
It melts and sways and swirls in unexpected patterns. Hypnotic.
Moving around me. But still, I feel like I am not part of it.
Jonas sits with me sometimes, and tries to talk to me, but I have
nothing to give him. Nothing that he wants. I'm not trying to be
far away from him. I don't even feel angry, anymore. But when he
says things, I don't know what to say back. I don't know how to form
something meaningful. Something beyond a sigh, or a nod, or a one-word
answer. He keeps trying, even though he's frustrated, but that only makes
it worse. I feel like I'm supposed to say something. Supposed to be
different than I am. The pressure of it fixes me in my pit of
isolation. I withdraw further, and further, until one day, Jonas stops
trying.
I tell myself he's just busy running his little army. And
maybe it's true. He goes out, and is gone a long time. The
following day is the same. Apollon is gone, too, and it makes me wonder
why I'm still here. Instead of watching the small slice of world out the
window, I slip out, too. I keep to the alleys, mostly, trying not to be
seen. But soon, I forget that it matters. The things I see around
me make me forget.
Perhaps the Outpost has passed some sort of milestone, or perhaps
Fate has simply grown tired of watching us wallow in our misery. Whatever
it is, we have moved past the weakness and into the dying. There are
bodies lying in an alley-- five of them altogether, three of them huddled in a
group. I know they're dead, because snow has fallen on top of them.
Cloven pig tracks wander down the alley past them. One of the corpses’
eyes, half-blocked with snow, are open, glazed with crystals of frost. I
move past them, unable to look away, wondering how it is they all died
together. Was it sickness, brought on by the starvation, or just the
complete loss of hope?
Other alleys reveal other horrors. People so sick they just lie
still and groan. A chorus of phlegmy coughs from a huddle of small
children. A boy, in the fetal position, his distended belly swelling
against his curled-up legs. A little girl, maybe four or five years old,
wandering by herself, her steps slow and uncertain, her eyes wide but not
seeing. I follow her, but she doesn't notice me. We wander the
Outpost, through quiet that used to be bustle. Across the shadows of the
Sentries that "protect" us. Past the sick, the dead.
Through the sermon alley, where the voice inside proclaims the coming of the
horsemen of the Apocalypse. I stumble over something under the snow, and
fall to my knees. In the process of climbing up, I uncover a leg. I
scramble the rest of the way to upright, breathing hard. Wiping my hands
on my pants, I turn to follow the girl, but she's gone. Her footprints
mix into the mush of traffic-smashed snow. I press on, searching, but
she's disappeared. Maybe she was a projection of myself. Or a
metaphor for all of us. How easily we all vanish from the face of the
earth. One moment, we live. The next, we are erased.
If I did not feel the depths of the thought at first, its blade
plunges deep into me when, heading toward the safe house, I walk into an
alleyway where a young woman clutches an infant in her arms. The woman is
pale with death, frozen, sinking into a snow drift. The child, however,
whimpers in her arms, wriggling, rooting. I freeze, terror gripping my
throat like a wolf on its prey. There is an eternity in which I'm unable
to act. Then, making myself, I move forward. I pry the baby from
the mother's death grip and cuddle it against myself. I breathe warmth on
its face, coo soothing words to it as it wriggles fiercely with hope. We
slump against the wall, and I melt snow in one hand and dribble drops into the
baby's mouth. It laps the liquid up, briefly, then falls into a deep
sleep in my arms. I hold it close, whispering to it, trying to shield it
from the cold.
The baby is no more than a few days old, tiny and wrinkled,
still. The rag that wraps its bottom is wet, icy, but everything I can
salvage is also soaked in snow. I discard the rag entirely, and tuck the
little girl into my jacket, zipping it around her, leaving just her face
exposed to the air. We walk the Outpost together, looking for something
to help her. There has to be milk, somewhere. Another nursing
mother, perhaps, who might take her in. Even as I hope for it, my stomach
turns over, knowing how unlikely it is that anyone would take on another mouth
to feed at a time like this. I think of Matt-- of how he might be able to
help. But I can't go to him. Tears pour down my face. How
long can I keep her alive? A few days, maybe? I shake my head,
refusing the thought. Jonas can help her. Jonas has resources,
now. He can help her. I start toward home, hoping he'll not be away
all night, again. "It's OK," I whisper to my little
passenger. "You're going to be OK." I run my hand up and
down my jacket, stroking her back. She's so sound asleep. She
doesn't respond. I gently readjust her, easing her upward, looking down
at her face. Her little mouth is open, still. I jostle her.
No response. She's not breathing.