I trudge up the last curve of the hill towards the converted church and duck into the orchards, ditching the cycle far enough into the trees that it won’t be spotted from the road. The tool shed is half a mile away, through the orchard grove on my left, not visible from the road. I count the rows as I walk, sixth row in and straight back. Will she be there? The chances are slim, it's early in the season for more than one or two maintenance technicians to roam the dormant trees. But I possess Rabbit's tangible hope now. The impossible feels possible.
Far off in the distance to the right, a mechanical cherry rover hums. No, it's too far away for me to be picking up any noises. It's the vibrations. The voice of the machine. The sounds are in my head. Well, that can't be accurate. I snap a finger beside my left ear to check the volume on my hearing aid; it’s turned halfway up. Couldn't be a malfunction. I try again to visually locate the rover but it's nowhere in sight. Must be loose wiring in the auditory implant.
The tool shed slides into view from behind a cluster of trees and I physically restrain myself from making a mad dash towards the comfort of its sagging walls. I spin around and check my rear, making sure no one followed me, which is highly unlikely but existing as a terrorist spy has the habit of making you appropriately suspicious of your surroundings when engaging in criminal behavior.
I dig in the dirt and dead leaves at my feet for a rock to pitch against the side of the shed. The wise move is to be sure it’s not an ambush. The rock clangs against the rusting metal and a toe peeks out from behind the far wall. It’s clad in a black work boot, similar to mine.
I clear my throat loudly and state, “flash.”
“Bang,” Carmen says, stepping out from behind the shed, “You’re dead.”
I sigh and rub my temple. “I thought you might be—”
“Someone else? Smart girl. I was trying to reach you at the base. Our plant at the gates was transferred to the Ukraine and K.I.A. two months ago. No one will believe you’re my daughter.” She shrugs.
“Why, what’s happening?” Dread rises like bile in my throat.
“Nothing good.” She reaches into her pocket to retrieve the letter, holding it out to me. “Read for yourself.”
I take the letter and she spies the rosary on my wrist.
“Who gave that to you?”
“A friend. What does it matter?”
Carmen and I are not on good terms. She doesn’t trust me, considers me a liability. I only trust her because options are limited. She’s my connection to Mateo, and Mateo is integral to Plan B.
Carmen rolls up the sleeve of her jacket to reveal a matching rosary bracelet. It’s the same design, with the red cross and white beads. “It matters.”
I narrow my eyes at her and slide the jacket cuff over the rosary. Rabbit is already involved enough by simply knowing me. By reading the letter. I don’t want to implicate him in this, a conspiracy he has no part in. The rosary bracelet could be an unfortunate coincidence of religious iconography that has nothing to do with the Contras. Or it could mean he’s a Contra sympathizer. Or it could mean he’s a Contra spy. The matching details are impossible to ignore. Regardless, I don’t want his name on Carmen’s lips if either of us get caught.
“Not to you,” I say. “It doesn’t matter to you.”
“Suit yourself. Be careful who makes friends with you.” She pulls a cigarette from her pocket and ignites it, taking a drag.
“Thanks for the advice. See you in a month?”
“Probably. You know that thing you asked The Matador to get you?” She flicks ash and takes another puff, squinting as the smoke billows back in her face.
“You read our letters?” I ask, face growing warm. Embarrassed at the thought of Carmen pouring over my amorous confessions. Is there no such thing as privacy? Does everyone get to read our damn letters now?
“Course not. But I am privileged with some information. Or I wouldn’t be a very good conejo, now would I?”
“Conejo?”
“Yeah. Like a mole, a topo. Except I’m not blind. But I burrow underground. I keep my ears to the ground. I keep watchful eyes. I’m very clever.”
“Like a rabbit,. My fingers clench around the rosary bracelet, nails digging into my flesh. Carmen notices.
“Yeah, like that. It’s my job to learn things about you. A lot of things about you. And I take my job seriously. You asked about fourth gen bands.” She pulls the cigarette away and scrapes some of the particulates off the tip of her tongue with a gnarled thumb.
“I’ve been asking The Matador for years. Three years and he never sent me one. He said it was too risky and where would I hide it and how would I avoid detection. Why now? Why is he sending me the fourth gen now?”
“Those aren’t questions I can answer. But you could probably figure it out if you think real hard. Same reason I’m here, little topo. Same reason I don’t get to live the life I want. We serve a better purpose on the inside. Maybe The Matador didn’t want you to escape. You’re no good to us dead.”
The hairs raise on my arm, rivulets of electricity buzzing along the folds of my jacket. Carmen cocks her head at this display, taking another long drag on the cigarette, enjoying my discomfort. A rock forms in the pit of my stomach.
“That’s a neat trick Prothero has you doing. Controlling electricity or something. Does The Matador know about that?”
I don’t answer her. “Do you have it? The fourth gen?”
“Not yet. The Matador says to tell you it’s coming. You’ll get it before your National Service term is up. Be patient. Can you be patient Lima?” I hate when she uses our nicknames. The mocking sing-song in her tone grates my already raw nerves.
“I can be whatever I need to be.”
“Yes, you can do whatever we need you to do. But you can’t do what you want. It’s a sad story.” The smirk she wears melts the ice in my stomach and lights a fire there instead.
I never get what I want. Snippets from a dream I didn’t remember until now flood through me. Weightless spinning in the stars. In the comfortable shell of a spaceship and Rabbit’s arms around me and we float in silence. We escape, together. I had that dream last night. It was just a dream though.
I never get what I want.
“Tell me about rabbits.”
“Smart ones don’t get caught,” she says, her gaze flickering again to the rosary bracelet.
“What about here. Are there conejos here?” I ask, looking down at the rosary and back up to her.
“Besides me? Don’t think so. Not ones I have the privilege of knowing about, anyway. Wild ones, maybe.”
She smiles again, revealing crooked gold teeth.
“What about ones who’ve been caught?” I ask, thinking back to Rabbit’s prison tattoo. His ties to the Fullers. My head spins. I want to sit down but my body language would give me away to Carmen. She notices too much already.
“No. They get killed and eaten. Or maybe kept as a pet, in a cage. Smart conejos don’t get caught. They keep away from traps and snares. Like me.” She thumps a thumb against her ample chest and takes another drag on the cigarette, her eyes boring into me.
“When will the fourth gen get here?” I ask again, because it’s the only other thought revolving in my brain at the moment. I want to get out of here. Away from Carmen, away from National Service, away from the Contras and their conejos and everyone. I want to escape.
“Soon. You keep coming back to visit me. I get lonely out here separated from the colony. I like our talks.” She turns her back on me and glides like an apparition out of sight, leaving a trail of acrid smoke and irritation in her wake.
I liked the French guy better. The one in Paris who snuck me chocolates.
On the path back to the stashed cycle I kick angrily through the withered leaves piled beneath the trees. They crumble and flutter away at first contact with my boot. Damn Carmen. Implying I’m screwing things up for the Contras. I’m in danger here. I’m dangerous. The chill winter sun catches a gl
int from the rosary as I storm around the dormant trees, Carmen’s ominous admonishments filtering back to me. Rabbit cannot be a spy for the Contras. He’s been admitted into SAI. He’s changing his life. Isn’t he?
The Fullers. He could be a spy for the Fullers. He said they owed him something. He owes them something. Maybe he’s like me, a mole, but for the wrong side. Not a rabbit at all. Carmen possesses a caustic personality, but she’s been a Contra for longer. If I can’t trust her...who can I trust? I thought I could trust Rabbit. I was trying to, anyway. I want to trust him.
I want...him.
I let out a growl of frustration and slam a fist into a tree. It leaves a shallow dent in the hard bark and jogs the locking mechanism on the rosary bracelet loose. It slithers from my wrist like a limp snake and drops to the ground in a coiled pile. I pick it up and jam it in my pocket, sprinting in the direction of the cycle. I don’t want to remain in the orchard any longer. Not with heavy doubts settling in me. I experienced one good night with Rabbit. One morning infused with a bit of hope. And now stupid Carmen’s insinuations scramble my head and this stupid letter burns a hole in my pocket. The stupid rosary bracelet and it's unpleasant implications.
The ride back into town is mostly downhill. I detour across the crumbling freeway to the swingset at the base of the Dam. I usually read the letters in my favorite toilet stall in the Commons, but I’m anxious to open it after Carmen suggested the contents were of great importance. And I want a modicum of privacy.
I take a seat on one of the rusting swings, gripping the chains turned green in the wind and rain from the Gorge. There is no one around to repair it. There is no one. It’s me and the letter. I peel the pages apart with shaking fingers and my eyes dive to the opening greeting and first sentence:
Lima,
Winters are the worst time of the year. We have been separated for so long, you might think I am content without hearing a new word from you for months, but you would be wrong. This is difficult. I know you are strong. You survive the cold, hard winters in the Pacific Northwest, just as I survive the hot, arid summers in the Southwest.
I cannot survive too much longer. Things are bad down here. They’re releasing new strands of the virus and our simulated antidotes, derived from the inoculations you stole, do not work anymore. They are useless. It is especially hostile to women and children. It is fatal. Lima, our people are dying in the most horrible ways and all I can do is watch.
This form of inaction will not stand for long. We are moving forward with a new vaccine but it’s slow going. Any information you could send us would be much appreciated. I do not want to alarm you, but I contracted this new virus strain. It’s airborne and they pump it through the vents of all the bombed out buildings and into the sewers. It was impossible to avoid it.
There’s a reserve of medicine set aside for the leadership, but it’s running out. Will be depleted within two months time. I know it sounds crazy, but I need you to steal inoculations for me again, enough to last until we create a new antidote. Once more for old times sake? Please send the medicine. Give the inoculations to Carmelo. Then you hop in your bird and fly down here on silver wings. We will free you from your band. From your bondage.
I know you will be upset and worried. But I need you calm and focused for this. Do not do be crazy, Lima. We need your resources, your access most of all. Those inoculations will extend our lives and extend the strength and reach of the cause.
We, perhaps, may do something insane and be forgiven. In retaliation for the new virus, we’re going to take down their building, their headquarters in the heart of our city. It will not be anytime soon, but we are patient. We watch and wait for the right time to strike. That is the way we survived this long.
I’ll remember to pray for our friend Javier and his family as I watch the bombs explode. I pray for him often. Do not be sad, pretty girl. Javier was ignorant of the resistance, but he died protecting us. He died for an important cause. Like one day I will. And you will.
With Love,
El Matador
My trembling hand holding the letter sinks down to my lap and I take a long look out over the waters of the Columbia. My mind spins and goes blank at the same time. A million things rush through my head. Numbness and emptiness overwhelms me, like a weighted blanket drawn over my shoulders, dragging me towards the earth.
That’s the problem with a metal heart. Just when you need it most, when you most need to feel, it fails you.
I’ve been concentrating so much on my personal dramas with Rabbit and Clinton that I’ve ignored Mateo and the Contras and their incredible need. Mateo is dying. Everything is the same as it was years ago. Nothing changes. Nothing gets better. It’s only an alternating series of viruses and bombs and Prothero and...
The implant seizes in my chest. Pain ripples across my ribcage and burns into the muscles of my back, like someone is flaying the flesh from my bones with a red hot poker. My heart doesn’t skip a beat, it stages a full scale revolution against my body. I curl around the liquid hot point of light, the letter falling from my hands and landing in the patchy dirt underneath my feet. I heave forward out of the swing. The world in front of me tilts and slams to a halt as I hit the ground.
This can’t happen.
I’ve had this heart for three years. Why now? Why is this happening now? I land on my knees and grab wildly for the paper, crumpling the folds in my clawed fingers, trying to jam it in my pocket. Another sharp wave crashes against the shore of my chest, deep enough to make me cry out. The band display casts a projection, a warning error sounds in my ears. My vitals, it’s reading my vitals. It’s reading that my vitals are failing. My clumsy fist and the letter are all that matter now. I need to get rid of it. No one can see this.
I crawl towards the river, grabbing blindly at the clumps of dry scratch grass around me and heaving myself forward with trembling legs and arms. Air burns in and out of my lungs and my vision blurs. I’m almost there. Another few feet. Another few inches. Dragging, dragging my useless body to the edge of the water. The error message on the band grows louder in my ears. I’ve never heard it before. It’s a whooping siren, like the end of the fucking world.
A soothing, robotic voice clicks on from nowhere: You are experiencing a myocardial infarction. Please remain calm. Medical professionals are en route to assist you.
I squeeze my eyes shut and draw a stabbing breath into my lungs. Three more feet. I will make it. I will do this. A third wave of pressure drops my legs out from under me, my fingernails biting into the hard dirt beneath them. Three more feet. I can make it. I use all my remaining energy to toss the letter. It bounces once, twice, three times and rolls to the edge of the bank. Medical helos from the base will be here any minute now. I’m sure of it. The siren, the voice: You are experiencing a myocardial infarction. Please remain calm.
The crumpled letter flutters in a light breeze, taunting from the riverbank. Playfully rolling back and forth, but not tumbling over the edge and down into the water below.
The wind picks up around me, whirling in a circular pattern. Over the buzzing of the warning message, a thumping, whining noise. A helo. I want to roll over and watch its progress, but all the strength goes out of me. My head hits the ground, the letter shifting out of view. The sounds of men and women shouting to one another pushes lazily against my ears. My surroundings grow dim, like a darkened room when you pull the curtains. Pull the blankets up over your head. Stuff the pillow over your ears. Everything narrows to blackness.
A fourth wave of pain rolls over me, flattening my reality and taking the sounds away. The helo wings vibrate in the air, feet rumble towards me over the frozen, stiff earth. My eye implant snaps open as people touch my sides, lift, and roll me over. I catch one final, fleeting image of the letter ascending in the air and dancing out over the water. Dropping and rising. I smile. My eyes close. The noises stop.
The world is quiet, for once.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Plan
B
“Eleni?” a familiar voice asks.
My eyes snap open. I’m laying in a hospital bed. Not restrained. That’s a good sign. I roll my head over and Nurse Esperanza smiles down at me. I blink, my mouth pulling into something resembling a return smile.
“I made it?”
“Barely. That was the closest call we’ve had with one of our residents in awhile. You like to push the envelope huh?”
“It’s a talent.” I roll my head back and look up at the ceiling, trying to remember what happened before I passed out.
Oh, the letter. Mateo. The Contras. The virus. The bombing.
My heart races again, the monitor spiking. Nurse Esperanza grabs my shoulder.
“Take it easy.”
“How much easier?” My words slur. I feel...drunk.
“What’d you give me?”
“Don’t trouble yourself about that. Are you up for visitors?”
“Visitors?”
“Yes, your two friends stalked the infirmary lobby for the last 10 hours waiting for you to regain consciousness. I’d like them to leave at some point. This seems to be the only way, though I’d advise against it.”
I prop myself up onto my forearms and elbows, lifting my upper torso. My arms shake with the effort.
“That’s the drugs,” she says. “Physically you’re fine. The other nurse practitioners and doctors here can’t explain it. You’ve already healed the damage to your organs. Your body decided to randomly reject the heart implant, but the nano-suppressants stabilized you. And your body did the rest.”
I smack my lips together. That explains the metal taste on my tongue.
She takes backward steps to the door, pushing it open. “Come in kids. Sleeping beauty is awake.”
Scarlett enters first, worry emanating from her like a beacon, her cheeks stained with black mascara tracks. Rabbit enters next, bringing that pleasant dip in my stomach I’ve come to associate with him. He looks about as miserable as Scarlett, but without the mascara streaks. Scarlett launches on me with a massive hug and a kiss on the forehead.
Metal Heart: Book 1: The Metal Heart Trilogy Page 16
