Feuds (10 page)

The kiss flashed through his mind for what seemed like the millionth time. Her lips, searing into his. Her heart, pulsing against his chest. It was so overwhelming a memory that he nearly dropped the bar, nearly passed out from the exertion coupled with emotion. He struggled to replace the bar in its tray. He had to tell Parson, one way or another. He had no choice. The alternative was too awful: if Davis found out the truth—found out why he'd kissed her—she'd be crushed. Telling Parson was the right decision. The only decision.

An hour passed. Ninety minutes. One hundred twenty. It was now more than two hours since Cole had left the campaign center, and his muscles were so limp he could barely lift his body from the weight bench. He headed toward the showers of the nearest public bathroom, which served as a makeshift locker room and was used almost exclusively by the people who trained at the Swings. A couple of the guys who'd also been working out in the yard grabbed the remaining nozzles that lined the open, tiled room.

“… All over the place,” one of the guys was saying. “It's sick. The squatters are moving out 'cause of the smell.”

“Jesus,” said one of the others in a low tone. “That's some serious shit.”

“Yeah. And, like, they're just leaving them there. Not even burying their own goddamn people.”

Cole suddenly realized what they were talking about:

Bodies.

The guy was railing now, his voice taking on an angry pitch. Cole's heart stopped.

“Piles of them,” another guy added.

“Piles of them,” the first guy confirmed. “A dozen, maybe more. That's what people are saying, at least.”

Cole turned up his faucet and ran his hands through his hair, hoping no one thought it was weird that he was lingering. He needed to hear more.

The first guy continued: “Lab rats make me sick. We'd never dump our own people without a burial.”

“Hell no,” the stocky guy said.

“It was creepy as hell, dude. I heard they had these weird marks on their faces, covered in dried blood, like their skin split open or someone took a knife to them or something.” He paused, letting the stocky guy take this in.

Cole's fingertips turned cold. Blood. Split-open skin. It wasn't just Caitlyn. Was it Narxis? How many others had died from it? How long had the Priors been keeping it quiet?

“Holy shit.” It was all the stocky guy could say. “What the hell happened to them? Is there some psycho killer running around?”

“No idea,” said the first guy. “Some people think it's a strategy. To stop us from spreading.”

“Killing off their own people?”

“No, idiot. Throwing the bodies along the river. Keeps us out.”

“I don't believe it,” the stocky guy said.

“I'm just telling you what I heard. Next thing, they'll shut down the Swings. We're too close to the border.” He glanced over and nodded at Cole just as Cole was about to switch off the water, having taken way longer than usual. He'd heard enough to scare him shitless.

“Hey,” the guy said. “What's going on? You're using up all the water, man.” Everyone knew who Cole was because of Cole's status among the FEUDS fighters, so he knew they weren't going to get too aggressive.

“Sorry,” Cole told him, grabbing a dingy towel. “Just heading out.”

He was even more wound up now than when he'd first arrived at the Swings. Did Parson Abel know about the bodies? Did Worsley and Hamilton? Had they dumped Caitlyn's body there, too, along with the rest of them? Assuming the other people died the same way Caitlyn had, how fast was this thing spreading? Cole caught himself; a week ago, he realized, he wouldn't have cared. He would have made fun of those lab rats right along with the guys at the gym—would have assumed, like them, that all Priors were the same. But now he'd met one, had gotten to know one. She wasn't at all what he'd expected … and he couldn't get her out of his head.

*   *   *

He had just walked out of the bathroom when he saw a suited form in his periphery. Parson Abel's fists were clenched and his stride was long. Even from thirty yards away, Cole could make out his fury by the way his shoulders pressed together and his fists clenched at his sides. Cole stood his ground, letting Parson come to him.

“How dare you?” Parson hissed, the veins in his forehead popping. “You summon
me
? You break into my headquarters? You invade my personal space? Let me remind you,” he continued, jabbing one finger into Cole's chest, “you are working for me. Discretion is paramount.” He paused, taking a breath, and Cole took the opportunity to break in.

“I'm not doing it,” he said, his voice firm. “You think you can make me do your dirty work? There were a few things you left out. As far as I'm concerned, all bets are off. I'm out.”

“What are you talking about?” Parson's voice was low, guttural.

“I'm talking about the bodies. About this …
disease
that's killing Priors. About the fact that this girl you have me following…” Cole's voice nearly cracked at this, but he continued on. “She's not a bad person and she doesn't deserve whatever you are planning. I have a bad feeling about this. I feel like it's gonna get me in trouble, whatever it is you're angling for. I didn't get a picture and I'm not going to. I don't want any part of it.”

Parson laughed in Cole's face. “That's what this is all about?” he said, sneering openly. “‘She's not a bad person,'” he mimicked, and Cole flushed from embarrassment. “Let me tell you something,” Parson said, taking a step toward Cole. “You threaten me again, I'll rip your head off. I'll do it when you least expect it. You better believe I'll destroy you, and your family. You want to see your mother get fired, Cole? This is how to do it. You breathe one more word about this disease, and your mother's job is gone.
Any
job,
anywhere.
Don't even think about it, Cole. Don't go up against me. You need me more than I need you.” He stopped, breathing hard, faint spittle building up at the corners of his mouth.

Cole stared at him. He didn't know exactly why Parson Abel had hired him, but it was for a reason that was very, very important to the politician; that much was clear.

“The disease,” he tried again. “You can
do
something about it—”

“The disease is bullshit,” Parson hissed, leaning in toward him. His eyes were wide, and he was speaking so animatedly that flecks of spit sprayed from his mouth. Cole could sense fear and anxiety radiating from him, and he realized Parson was lying. Cole grew cold with fear—if Parson was hiding the disease, then it
must
be real. It wasn't just Caitlyn. Worsley was right—all the Priors could die. Still, he had the upper hand. “This better be the last I hear of it,” Parson said, lowering his voice. “Or all of it: the money, your mom's job, your house—it's gone. All of it.”

Cole was quiet. Every nerve in his body was firing, but he had nowhere to go. He so badly wanted to put Parson Abel in his place … but he couldn't. Parson was right; he was powerless. He had no alternatives—and Parson, he sensed, though nervous, meant every word of it. He could lift a finger and destroy Cole's life, and he would.

“I didn't get the picture,” Cole said in a dull voice.

“So go after it again,” Parson snapped. “Get me what I need, Cole. And be grateful that you're getting
any
of the FEUDS winnings at all.
If
you win.”

Cole snapped to attention, and Parson smirked, taking obvious pleasure in his confusion. “You didn't hear?” Parson asked, his eyes widening in faux concern. “Oh, poor Cole. Your old friend Noah Gibson's rejoined the fight. Bets are split. Actually,” he corrected himself. “Bets are against you. Noah's back from South Gulf, Cole. All he's done for months is train. You better pull yourself together, boy, or you're going to get the beating of your life. So get the photo of you with the girl, and get training.”

“It'll take me a little while,” Cole replied. “I'll do it,” he said, stalling. He'd agree for now, but only to buy himself some time. “I'm just going to need a few days at least.”

“Fine,” Parson agreed, running one hand over the stubble on his chin. “Fine. I don't care. Just get me the damn photo.” Then he swiveled on his heel and strode away, through the fence that bordered the Swings, back toward the motie that would take him to the city center. Cole stood by the weight bench for several minutes, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal. He'd figure this thing out. He just needed time. One thing Parson was right about: winning FEUDS was his only shot at freedom. He needed that prize money. He needed to get out of this mess.

 

7

DAVIS

On Tuesday, Davis set out for the studio at five in the morning, eager to fit in a good workout before school. The letters announcing PA results would be mailed out the following Monday, along with a list of the athletes who had qualified for the Olympiad trials. Davis had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach every time she thought about that letter and the news it would bring. She couldn't help replaying her misstep in front of the judges in her mind, her mortification over it sweeping back in. When she'd voiced her concerns to Vera over DirecTalk, Vera had assumed she was being overly anxious. But she'd offered to take her out for froyo anyway, and when Davis refused, she'd ordered her a subscription to her favorite tablet tabloid. Davis was too anxious to finish even one article, though. Ballet training was the only thing keeping her sane as she waited.

But when she arrived at the monorail, she saw it wasn't working. She stood for a minute, staring at it stupidly. Never in her life had the monorail been shut down. She knew the strikes had been escalating, after halfheartedly listening to her dad and Frank, his campaign manager, bicker about it for days. But she'd definitely had no idea what it would be like or how far-reaching the consequences would be.

She set off to walk the mile and a half to the studio, which would leave her only about twenty minutes to practice, but she didn't feel like asking for a ride and then waiting around for the car to be brought out of the garage. Her father wouldn't approve, but Davis relished the chance. It was so seldom she went anywhere alone.

The city was quieter than usual, and bits of paper and other trash swirled in the wind over the empty sidewalks, settling in little piles like debris after a hurricane. Davis had never seen the city so unpolished; the streets were typically sparkling and pristine, though there was only so much you could do about the million footprints left behind on their sleek surfaces every day. Now dusty footprints and litter crowded the limestone sidewalks.

She passed a dozen shuttered storefronts, looking ghostly in the dawn light, their entrances blocked by glaring metal teeth. A train sat stalled on the metro track, as if waiting. One door was wedged open, and Davis could make out the figure of an old man curled up in its interior. She quickened her pace.

When she reached the studio, the doors were closed and bolted.
PLEASE EXCUSE THE INCONVENIENCE,
read the sign that was tacked to the door.
MEYER
STUDIO WILL BE CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE DUE TO THE LABOR DISPUTES.

“Excuse me,” Davis said to a woman who was walking by. The woman kept pace, didn't even bother to answer her. But Davis was determined. “Excuse me!” she said louder, jogging to catch up. She placed a hand on the woman's arm and the woman spun, nervous.

“What?” she said.

“Do you know how long everything's going to be shut down?” Davis asked.

The woman peered at Davis in disbelief. “Haven't you been keeping up with the news?” she asked her. “Half the city buildings are shut down because there's no staff. I have no idea how long it's going to last. It'll last 'til they get hungry enough to work again.” Then she hurried on, as though she couldn't be bothered to say more.

The city was eerie without the Imps. Cold. Deserted.

Plastic bags and scraps of receipts and other trash floated across the street, carried by a light but not unpleasant breeze. It seemed like a thin coating of dust had already settled over the sidewalks and building surfaces. Windows that had once been immaculate—glossy enough to double as mirrors—were now smudged and flecked with bits of sediment.

Davis walked home with her arms hugged tightly across her chest. It was becoming more and more obvious how much the Imps were a part of things, how they kept everything running. She didn't like being dependent on the same people she was supposed to pity. It was one thing to screw up the PAs; it was another not to have access to the place she considered a refuge. Her heart sped up, and she fought to control the ever-encroaching sense of dread that had threatened her since the night of Emilie's party—and even more so since the PAs. Without dance … she didn't know what she'd do. She'd probably fall apart. She needed it, the same way other people needed sleep. It was such a part of her that the thought of ripping it away felt like a version of death.

The only comfort was the thought of Cole. Their kiss still wrapped around her like a warm blanket every time she thought of it. Somehow, it hadn't decreased in intensity; it held her as tightly in its grip as it had the night it happened. But even if she were brave enough, she had no way of contacting him. Even Vera didn't know how to get in touch with him, and she knew everybody. She had promised to ask around, and that had been days ago. Everything about him was a mystery.

Davis's unease only worsened when she got to school an hour later and saw that Emilie was absent. Davis's own attendance record was near-perfect, marred only by that one time when her father gave a major campaign speech and had required her to be there. Ninety percent of the other students at Excelsior could say the same. But in Advanced World History, no one even glanced at the empty seat, third from the back in aisle two.