William has unlocked the door for me this time as well, waited for me to go in, then relocked it. Before I can take more than a couple of steps into a space I used to be so familiar with, I have to let my eyes adjust. Let them adapt to murky daylight that works its way through the cracked and broken panes of the small cellar windows.
At first I see the hulking shape of the furnace, its ducts still stretching across the ceiling like enormous arms. Then there’s the mattress where I lay for so long, surrounded by the clutter of bike frames, boxes of junk, tool handles, broken desks and chairs.
And on the mattress I can see the semblance of something human, curled into itself tightly, like a wounded animal.
The smell is so bad that for a moment I think, Is this what the smell of death is like? What you smell right after someone has died, while their body cools?
I have to force myself to edge closer to the mattress in order to get a good look at what’s there, to see if maybe there’s some sign of life. The motionless shape reminds me of what I saw so many times in the countless homes I entered while on the road. Houses where I crept into a back bedroom only to find a half-mummified corpse lying in the same spot where the poor invalid had succumbed to the disease.
When I reach that same ragged mattress where I lay for so many hungry and thirsty hours, I stop and listen but am not sure I can hear breathing. The figure doesn’t move. I lower myself down, squatting on my heels, trying not to be repulsed by the smell. Trying not to be too frightened to examine minutely what lies before me.
I don’t want to have to touch this shape, this once-human thing. Only want to listen to what my ears can tell me—but the sounds of the cellar work against me. Beams in the ceiling start creaking. Metal pipes groan and somewhere water is dripping. A broom chooses this very moment to tumble over, the wooden handle slapping the floor with a sound as loud as a gunshot. I’m so startled I fall back on the floor.
I push myself up and try again, lean in closer. Little daylight reaches this area of the basement but I can make out jeans and a coat, clothes that are blood-stained and muddied. It’s the body of a boy with his head turned away from me. I lean over farther and am able to see a spray of long dark hair obscuring everything but the side of his right cheek and the tip of his nose.
Then I hear it—low, shallow breathing.
The realization that he’s alive gives me the courage to reach out my hand and place it on his chest. I can feel his ribcage rise and fall, not much but steadily.
Who is this boy and why have they done this to him?
He must be taller than William but very thin. All William would tell me was that the wounded creature the Black Riders had dragged in and locked up below was a runaway. William made me guess at his gender, calling him that thing downstairs. Tetch said nothing about him, looked away when I asked. None of the children spoke his name. CJ, Terry and Stace had never seen him.
There is some food and water I brought with me but I have left the tray and bottle by the door on first entering the room. Looking at him now, I’m positive he wouldn’t be able to swallow a morsel of food but I go back for the water.
Leaning over him again, I try to shift him toward me, onto his back. As soon as I start to move him he lets out an unearthly groan, as if I’ve just taken a knife and stabbed him deep in the belly. I jerk my hands away, jump to my feet and pace back and forth frantically, cursing myself, wondering aloud if there’s anything I can do.
The sight of this boy—who may be dying—lying alone on a soiled, tattered mattress in the grim, dreary basement of this place fills me with rage, a howling rage more intense than I’ve felt at anything that’s been done to me. I want to grab the best weapons I can find and kill them all, all the Black Riders, all the so-called Elders who are such fools that they obey those crazy, diseased ones’ commands.
But I drive all these thoughts back, tamp them down, try to focus on what I can do. What’s possible for this boy lying helpless in front of me.
Just like Larkin lay before me on the last night we were together.
I scuttle over to the boy’s other side and let some water trickle across his lips as I had tried to let water dribble into Larkin’s parched mouth. I push the hair back from his face. His lips are cracked and bloodied, there are deep bruises along the side of his jaw and around one eye. From what I can see, there’s a good, strong face underneath all the damage.
I lift up the edge of the coat he’s wearing, trying not to cause him any distress. Holding up a flap of the coat, I gingerly touch a splotch of blood that’s bloomed across the fabric of his shirt like an exotic red flower. It’s still wet and warm near the wound and I yank my hand away.
What can I do? What can I do? The question flits around my brain like a frightened bird, unanswerable, making me panicked. But then the thought hits me, I’ve got to get him upstairs. I’ve got to clean him up. Find some clean bandages somewhere, some antibiotics. There are things I can do. I touch his forehead and it feels warmer than it should.
The idea that I’ve got to get him upstairs to someplace safe—warm, clean—gives me a way to channel my rage with something immediate I can accomplish. Since Moira’s visit last night, I’ve only seen William and Tetch left to keep watch over the Orphanage, the same as it was before. I haven’t seen any other Elders since William brought me up from the cellar.
I stand up, take a deep breath. The stench of this place no longer bothers me. The determination I feel overpowers everything else.
I know that there’s no way William and Tetch can stop me. I will get this boy upstairs and do whatever I can to keep him alive.
Two
“We’re moving him upstairs, William.”
He’s right above me, blundering his way up the steps.
It’s dark in the stairwell. We have to feel our way, hand over hand along the iron railing, stubbing toes against the risers, trying to set one foot after another down on something solid. Only a band of hazy gray daylight seeping into the stairwell from under the first floor door penetrates the darkness.
I wonder if it scares William to be alone with me in the dark like this. He’s clearly heard what I’ve said but doesn’t slow down, doesn’t pause for a moment to turn and answer. The only response he makes is a derisive snort, the sound you make when someone is being far too big an idiot to take seriously.
William left me in the cellar for what felt like an eternity before deciding to let me out. I kept pacing back and forth, feeling helpless, wanting to pound on the heavy steel doors, kick at them until William heard me. But I was afraid of making it worse for the wounded boy.
I was so furious I was shaking when I finally heard him fumbling with the lock, the rusty creak as he pushed the door back to reveal his pasty, smug little face.
I could have shoved him against the wall, screamed right in his face. What was that about—what the hell did you think you’d accomplish, leaving me here so long? You know I will make you pay.
But I wait to speak until we’re in the stairwell. Alone together in the dark. Until he’s just one short stair-step above me.
“He’s dying, William,” I yell at his back. He tries to speed up, desperate to stay ahead of me. “I can’t do anything for him down there. It’s filthy. I need medicine and bandages, anything we can find.”
“He’s not dying,” he says, like that last word is the most ridiculous he’s ever heard. “They don’t want him to die.”
“You know that for a fact, do you? You need to take a look at him.” He’s almost reached the first floor landing. I can see that band of daylight pass over his shins. “I mean it. I want you to come back down with me right now and take a look at him.” I bellow that last sentence like a drill sergeant but I can’t make him stop and pay attention to me.
Reaching up on tiptoe, almost losing my balance, I take a big swipe at the empty space between us. My fingers are like talons and I manage to hook the sleeve of the bulky sweater he’s wearing. I pull back on the soft wool,
feeling the threads stretch tight in my hand. He never stops moving. The fabric starts ripping at the shoulder but it doesn’t slow him. I come to a complete stop and keep pulling like I’m trying to reel in a fish and soon I’m left holding an empty sleeve.
William sprints across the first floor landing and slams the door open. A burst of daylight hits me in the face. I raise my arms to protect my eyes and wait for them to adjust.
But the light blinds William as well. The back of his narrow-shouldered body comes into focus, a dark smudge against the light, and I can tell that he’s also paused for a moment, half out the door.
It occurs to me that I’m still holding the empty sleeve of his sweater. I grab both ends of it and yank it tight like a short piece of rope. A vision of slipping this thing over his head and throttling him into submission flashes through my mind but just as it does he starts to move. I toss the sleeve aside and heave myself up the last few steps. He’s out the door and it starts to shut but I bang it back open with my hip and hurl myself at him, tackling him like a linebacker, throwing my arms around his legs as I fall forward, knocking him down.
We tumble out into the hallway.
He writhes and kicks, tries to crawl away like his legs are caught in quicksand but I don’t let go. My knees hurt from the impact of the fall, my left hip stinging where I slammed it against the crash bar of the door. To stop him kicking, I clamber up his body like I’m climbing up a ledge, letting my weight hold his legs down.
William sits up and tries to pry me off, frenzied and squirming like I’m a python coiling my way around and around him. He starts to slap and claw at my face and the pain of his fingernails digging at my skin enrages me so completely that, without thinking, I slam the heel of my right hand into his soft, pulpy face. I push myself up and use my full weight to slam him back hard onto the cold, linoleum floor. I hear the back of his head hit the tile with a hollow thwok.
In seconds, I’ve got my hands clamped over each of his arms and a knee jammed hard into his belly. “Had enough?” I’m panting, my voice a ragged whisper.
He still squirms, but feebly now. His face scrunches up, like he’s about to cry. “What do you want?” It’s a little boy’s voice, quavering, his skin red and hot. The moon-shaped scar above his right eye is ghostly white against the backdrop of his flushed face. He won’t look at me, looks everywhere but directly at my face, as if searching for somebody who might magically appear out of nowhere to help him.
“What I want is for you to listen to me.” I scoot up far enough so that I’m able to pin his arms down with my knees, sitting on his stomach. I cup his chin with the palm of my hand, my fingers digging into his cheeks, to keep him from turning his head. I force his eyes to meet mine. I’m sure that if he could simply sink through the floor—disappear into the cracks between the tiles like a block of melting ice—he would do so gladly.
Some small part of me doesn’t want to hurt him, wants to pull back from what I’m doing. The thwak as he hit his head concerns me. I don’t want him to have a concussion, to be damaged, to suffer too much. But I do want him to suffer. All the pent up rage I’ve felt at how they’ve treated me, threatened me, hurt me—and what they’ve done to the boy in the cellar—wells up in me, floods my entire being, makes it hard for me to keep from hitting him. Again and again. And again.
“What if he does die?” I spit the words out, my face right above his. “Do you really want to be the one they blame if that happens?”
He jerks his chin up, trying to pull his head out of my grip. Doing this makes his neck jut upward—a soft, vulnerable, lilywhite neck with a quivering Adam’s apple. “No.”
“No what?”
“I don’t want him to die.” It’s hard for him to get the words out.
“Good. Then we’ve got to move him upstairs, somewhere clean and dry. Where I can see what I’m doing.”
He’s silent for a long time, turning this over in his mind. Calculating. He’s staring up at the ceiling as it recedes down the hall behind him. Row after row of dead fluorescent light fixtures mark the way. Finally he says, “I’ll have to ask.”
This takes me by surprise. Ask who? I wonder. The Elders? The Black Riders?
I ease up on my grip and he moves his head back to a normal position, looks up into my eyes again. “What are you going to do after we move him?” his says.
“We could move a cot into one of the offices down here. We can get some clean water to wash him, maybe find some way to heat it. Get blankets, clean clothes.” I bring my face down close to his. “Both of us together—we’ll get these things. You and I. Understand?”
William lets his eyes drift shut. He deflates a little more, like a sagging balloon, takes some slow, lingering breaths but is otherwise perfectly still.
I remove my hand from his chin. My fingertips have scored his cheeks with angry red pock marks, four on the left side of his face and one on the right made by the edge of my thumb. I look at my fingernails, at how worn down and jagged they are.
“He’s got some deep cuts that need to be treated,” I tell William. “He has a fever. You’re going to have to ask whoever you have to ask.”
I wonder if he’s thinking this over, weighing the consequences of letting Aiden die or having to ask for permission to move him. What I’m saying is reasonable, hard to argue with. But he keeps his eyes closed, doesn’t respond. I start to worry that I’ve really hurt him. I put a hand on his shoulder and shake him a little.
“William, are you okay? Are you there?”
He eyes flutter open and he looks annoyed. “Yes, I’m fine. Just hoping you were a bad dream. Can you get off me now? My head hurts, my face hurts. What do you want from me anyway?”
“God. You know what I want. Don’t play dumb.” I’m feeling much calmer. I feel like I’ve made my point, am getting through to him. I sit up, lift myself off him so I’m squatting over him rather than pressing him down.
Then I bring up the other vital thing I want him to do. “Do you know of a drug store around here? Somewhere that’s still got some medical supplies?”
“I’m not getting him medical supplies. You’re out of your mind.”
“Antibiotics. Bandages and some ointment. Aspirin. Anything you can find. Come on.”
It takes a while but he finally says in a soft little voice, “Needle has those.”
“Needle. The one I saw by the bonfire? The one who touched…”
“Yeah. The one who stuck his finger in Gideon’s…” He starts tossing his head back and forth, breathing faster like he’s reliving a nightmare. I can see the fear in his eyes. But then his panic subsides and he quiets down again. “He’s like the doctor here. The drug keeper. He knows more than anybody else about stuff like that.”
“Well, ask him then. If they don’t want him to die just yet, they have to help you.”
“I’d have to… I can’t do that. We can’t leave here. We can’t talk to them.”
He pushes himself up from the cold, hard floor with his elbows, starts to scoot back, trying to get out from under me. I respond by jamming a knee back down hard into his stomach.
I grab him by the chin again and snarl into his face, “You will do it. You’re telling me that Needle keeps all the medicine you’ve found in the city?”
William grabs my knee and tries to push it away but can’t budge it. His face is contorted and he struggles for a few moments, trying to get loose, trying to sit up straight. When he stops struggling as much, I lessen the pressure on his belly until he finally lets himself go limp, slumps back flat on the floor. He wheezes, “He has… All the good stuff.”
I’m thinking fast. Trying to decide what to do.
“I won’t make you do that,” I tell him, deciding to bargain with him. And lie a little. What I should say is, I won’t make you do that right now.
“I won’t make you talk to Needle. But I am going to make you help me get that boy upstairs. Without asking for permission.” I stare at him intently, letti
ng my words sink in. “All right? Agreed?”
He looks so young, so defenseless. As lost and helpless as any of the sunlight deprived kids in the dormitory. I’m sure I can make him do anything I want. But all I want him to do is help me save the boy in the cellar. The idea of punishing him, getting back at him—I don’t feel like it’s in me to do that. Nothing done purely for revenge against these deluded, so-called Elders seems worthwhile. But I will make them do what I want if it helps me and my family.
William finally looks me right in the eye and nods his head. He just says, “When?”
“As soon as we can. Now would be a good time.”
He turns his head and looks out the windows at the morning light. Now that we’ve stopped struggling, the silence in the long school corridor stands out sharply. I can hear every breath we take. It’s overcast outside but the light floods the space around us, making this empty hall seem just a little less cold, less forbidding.
I wait for William to say something else but he doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t respond. I know how hard it is to for him to agree to what I’m asking of him. How frightened he is. But his fears mean far less to me than the life of another.
As I watch him stare out the windows, those cracked and broken and crudely patched windows, I’m sure I know what he’s thinking. “You really think they’re watching us all the time?” I say. “William, I don’t think they really care what we do. The Riders. As long as we don’t run away.”
He doesn’t respond, keeps staring out the windows.
I let out a deep sigh and get to my feet so that I’m standing over him. He looks up at me now. “I’ll give you a little time to think it over. To pull yourself together. Meanwhile, I’ll start looking for a cot and the other things. You just need to help me get him upstairs. Soon. All right?”
He nods his head a little and it’s enough for now. My gaze flits from his eyes to that moon-shaped scar, looming larger than any other feature on his face. The flesh there is fish-belly white and I imagine it must be cool to the touch, like the colorless flesh of the Black Riders.
What Blood Leaves Behind (The Poison Rose) Page 12
