Maybe none of it was real but the suffering.
CHAPTER THIRTY
ARTERIOLE
Small diameter blood vessel that branches from an artery and leads to capillaries.
Kathy’s autumn hair was stained plum black. Lock knelt and lifted away a knot of it while the girl stared into a bowl of John’s tomato soup. “You should try to eat, kiddo.” Then, to Willa, “You checked her over? Nothing but the hand?”
Willa shook her head. Kathy was fine, physically.
“Sweetie, we’re worried about you,” said Willa. “You’ve got to talk to us.”
Lock sat next to her, tentative. “Kathy, uh, I think I owe you an apology. I should have found another way to get the printers. You are so grown up that you make me forget sometimes that you’re still a kid. I’m sorry.”
Kathy’s eyes became thick and glossy as she fought to keep her composure. Lock, who always seemed awkward with physical contact, slipped an arm over the girl’s shoulder.
Tears poured over the big lashes as if tipped from a glass. Crying became weeping, sorrowful and deep, the years of trauma that she had buried beneath layers of armor releasing with each shaking breath. The separation from her parents, the loss of her home, her adoption by monsters, and everything they’d put her through since. She gulped inhalations from between hitching sobs. It was too much for any child to bear, and Willa marveled that it had taken her so long to break.
The three of them sat together on the makeshift bed for some time. With her face pressed to Lock’s shoulder, Kathy’s sobbing diminished until her body slacked, wrung out. She pushed slowly from Lock’s embrace, her eyes watery and swollen. She wasn’t saying something.
Lock furrowed her brow. “What?”
Kathy glanced to the side and Willa followed her eyes to a black poly bag at the foot of the bed. “What is that?” she asked.
Kathy’s voice was raw. “Look in it.”
Willa retrieved the bag and opened it. Inside were hundreds of tiny metal rods the shape of vitamin pills. She held it open for Lock to peer inside.
Lock poked her fingers inside and gave it a stir. “They look like… are those?”
“Yes,” Kathy croaked.
Lock squinted. “Bio-implant beacons?”
“Beacons? For what?” asked Willa.
“Location,” Lock answered. “It’s what you rid Kathy of when you lopped her pointer.”
“Where’d you get them, Kathy?”
“Factory.”
“The Box plant? What do they need them for?” asked Willa.
“They don’t,” Lock answered.
“They were moving children through,” said Kathy. “Processing them there.”
Willa pressed near, squeezed Kathy’s hand. “Was Isaiah there? Did you see him?”
“I don’t know him, Willa,” she answered. “I don’t know what he looks like.”
Willa’s head slumped. “Of course. Of course, you don’t.” She sniffled, regrouped. “So… he’s got one of these – beacons – in him? Like you did?”
Kathy nodded.
“How in the world did you get out of there?” asked Lock.
The girl gave a tight no headshake. She was done talking about it. She eyed the soup. “Do you have a spoon for that?”
Bad Blood buzzed as the day unfolded, with everyone preparing for the distribution of the counterfeit bags. Kathy found her feet again and pitched in as well. A minor setback occurred when one of the printers overheated and caught fire, but the remaining one plugged away, spitting out bags until the last minute.
Lock’s associates swooped in to collect their allocations for the lowblood neighborhoods within the other city segments. At the same time, she gave them jailbroken touchstones containing a virus of her own making that would allow the user to alter their phenotype profiles to match the blood bag they’d be turning in. The only difficulty was that the only way to infect all the touchstones in the districts was by touchstone-to-touchstone contact. But they had a plan for that. If they were successful, when people turned in their bags and touchstoned-in at the donor booth, the virus would hop onto the local system and the phlebotomist on duty would see a three-way phenotype match between their booth’s display, the donor’s touchstone, and God willing, the readout on the harvested blood.
At nightfall, Willa, Lock, and Kathy stood on an unnamed street in front of unnumbered houses in AB Plus, garbed in hastily-crafted costumes: Willa the witch, Lock the pirate, and Kathy, packed inside cardboard boxes to look like some breed of robot that had never existed. It was out of their hands now. They watched as children sprinted from door to door across barren lawns and cracked walkways, with bags painted like jack-o-lanterns swinging on their arms. Even though it was unlikely anyone had any candy to give, the freedom was sweet enough.
Willa imagined Isaiah as one of them, bobbing along in a herd of his cohorts, and felt a tug of sadness. She pushed the thought away. In two days, she’d have him back. She loooked to Lock and then to Kathy. “Either of you have any idea what ‘trick-or-treat’ really means?”
Kathy’s cuboid head pivoted. “You ask for a treat and if they don’t have it, they have to do a trick for you.”
“No, no,” said Lock authoritatively. “You do a trick and then you get the treat.”
“Mm, not quite,” said Willa. “See, the treat is what everybody thinks about – the trick piece of it got lost over the years. People think it was a choice for the person answering the door, do a trick or give a treat. But that wasn’t the case. Trick-or-Treat is a threat. The trick was a consequence of not having a treat to offer. Give that treat or get a trick. And the trick was mayhem. Egg your house. Fill the trees with toilet paper. Blow up your mailbox. That’s what it means.” She laughed a bit. “When it all started, mayhem prevailed. People got wise and started offering candy to buy peace. That’s Halloween.”
“There hasn’t been much candy out there for a while now,” said Lock.
“So here we are with the trick,” said Willa. “Mayhem.”
“Well, what we’re doing is a little bit more than setting a mailbox on fire.”
“What’s a mailbox?” asked Kathy.
Thrilled by the rare chance to run free through the night, children spread across the lowbloods like wildfire, not in any predictable pattern, but certain to cover the territory in a few short hours. Willa listened to the kazoo babble of their voices muffled on the carried wind and marveled at how it made a place of desolation sound like a place of happiness, even with so few treats to be had.
A flock arrived at a nearby house, sending up cheers of trick or treat.
The man and woman who’d come to the door smiled at the gang and seemed to be explaining, as most did, that they didn’t have any treats.
After a brief exchange, the children dug in their pumpkins and handed over a pair of empty blood-bags.
The man held one up to the yellow streetlight and Willa saw understanding flash across his face as he noticed the decoy pocket and the wipe-away notation they’d written on it of the phenotype contained within. He nudged the woman and pointed it out. The children offered up a jailbroke touchstone and the couple bumped theirs in turn.
Willa, Lock, and Kathy spread themselves out, to troubleshoot if necessary, and to make sure the children stayed supplied. Willa watched them make their deliveries and saw recognition in the faces of the recipients that this was Something Good. In some places, word had spread faster than the children were able to cover ground, with folks already having shared the touchstone virus, neighbor to neighbor.
As the night came to an end, Willa envisioned the lowest of lowbloods, her people, putting on their bags and tapping needles to ports, smiling while their unwanted essence pulsed them full. Come tomorrow, an army of the poor would march to the donor stations, have their bags removed and scanned by the company phlebotomists, and watch with glee as their blood took the label of something it was not, making it liquid cash for them and poison to any mon
ster that tried to eat it.
Lock had been right when she said their trick was extreme. It was. The trick, should it work, was mass murder.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
TAXONOMY
The area of science concerned with the classification of organisms.
The sun hadn’t been up thirty minutes, but the normally empty streets were filled with lowbloods. Warm, yellow-orange light infused the washed-out grays of their world with humming vitality, as men and woman, many of whom children trailed like ducklings, headed out to break the boycott. Sitting somewhere in west AB Minus and having not slept a wink, Willa watched from an old lawn chair. People made their way through the streets, washed and clothed in their very best, heads held proudly in the way of the highbloods they portrayed. All day, they traversed the city, going to donor stations they’d seldom frequented so as not to raise suspicions of the phlebotomists they’d seen on a regular basis, and who would be familiar with their blood types. The story was the same across the districts when Willa finally made the long trek south to Bad Blood.
That evening, they congregated in John’s module to watch The Patriot Report. The host of the show, whose face seemed molded from one of Lock’s poly butter sticks, gleamed with excitement as he announced the end of the protests and a return to normalcy.
The lights were low and he spoke in hushed tones directly into the camera. “We are proud to welcome back all of the loyal Patriots who saw the pirated telecast of our program from the other evening exposed for what it truly was: Fake News!” He backed away, holding his arms out to the sides. Two attractive assistants fell into place on each. “A devious ruse designed by lowlifes and traitors to cut off desperately needed blood to the Gray Zones.” He gestured to a screen showing purported footage of those suffering in the affected areas. “You will be pleased to know that we have already rooted out the terrorists – and that’s what they are, folks, terrorists – who perpetrated this scheme. They will be tried and punished.” The two assistants clapped like they’d just won a gameshow washer-dryer set.
Those in the room exchanged looks. Lock shrugged, “They got us, apparently.”
The host continued, “We don’t negotiate with terrorists, but we do reward loyalty! And that is why we are doubling our incentives for the next two days on all blood types!”
An explosion of confetti poured down around him, settling on the brim of his signature red and gold striped top hat.
“And now for today’s numbers. Sit still, folks, because we haven’t had a single day like this in some time.” He paused as a graphic unfurled across the bottom of the screen. “One hundred and thirty-two thousand!” He shouted, flinging the hat. “What an achievement! Our single largest donation day since Goliath!” A huge waving flag graphic appeared behind him and the State Anthem boomed.
“So, it worked?” asked Willa, as the broadcast continued to the segment-by-segment breakdowns.
“Seems the blood got through, at least,” answered Lock. “If your theory about the lack of rigor employed by your former coworkers holds true, then it worked. Otherwise, if those needle probes hit anywhere but the decoy pocket, well then, a bunch of folks just got paid for lowblood. I’ll wait for my people in North-By and Crosstown to get back to me, see if they got the highblood prices.”
The host placed the hat back on, taking care not to over muss his hair, and approached the camera, almost nudging the lens with his nose. “I want you all to know, from the bottom of my heart – from the bottom of Patriot’s heart – just how vital your blood is to those who receive it. Always remember, that your continued support keeps people alive. God bless.”
“Turn it off,” said Lock.
“Thank you,” said John as he closed the feed. “I can’t watch that asshole anymore.” He palmed the front door of the module and stepped into the dwindling light.
“A hundred and thirty-two thousand bags,” said Willa. “How many do you suppose are ours?”
“Most of ’em, you’d think. We ended up just shy of one-sixteen before the printers went kaput.”
“I’m nervous,” said Willa.
“Me too, girl,” said Lock, standing and fogging her goggles. “Go get some rest. Get yourself a shower. I’ll do the same when I get back.”
“Where are you going?”
“Recon.”
“Can I come with?” asked Kathy, who everyone assumed had been asleep in a nearby chair.
Lock looked at her like she was crazy. “I’m headed to scope the Heart, so no. Not after what you’ve been through. I’ll take you to the Bahamas later to help Lindon with the kiddos. You can also keep an eye out in case Everard shows back up.” She opened the door and stepped out, then paused. “I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.”
The door slapped shut and Willa stared at it for a moment before turning to Kathy, who dug her fingers in a bowl of radiant cherry tomatoes. “What?” the girl asked, noticing Willa’s glare.
“I want to know how you got out.”
“Out of where?” Kathy asked innocently.
Willa narrowed her eyes like she did when Isaiah gave her a load of baloney.
Kathy made a noise like hmm, but from a place of annoyance rather than contemplation. She gave her attention back to the bowl.
“I’m serious, Kathy. That building was crawling. How does a fourteen year-old escape and then get drenched in somebody else’s blood?”
Kathy settled contentedly into the thin cushions of the old couch. The rest had done her good. Her cheeks were full of color and her eyes were clear, their intensity renewed; perhaps even stronger than before. She cleared her throat and leveled her gaze. “I told them who I was.”
“What? Why? Why would you bring that attention to yourself?”
“I was kidnapped, Willa. By you and Lock – don’t you remember?”
And then it clicked. “You got them to believe we were forcing you to steal the printers,” Willa said, understanding. The girl was smart.
“They didn’t know we were after printers. I told them you’d sent me in to steal food.”
“OK, but that doesn’t explain how you escaped.”
“Sure it does.” The muffled pop of a tomato exploded inside Kathy’s cheek. “They separated me from the other kids while they contacted Patriot. I ended up alone with two of them.”
“Two of them?” Willa’s stomach grumbled uneasily. “How did you get away from two men?”
“It wasn’t that hard.” She went back to the bowl.
“You… you… killed them, didn’t you?” Willa knew she had but wanted the girl to affirm it. Still, it was hard to say out loud.
“Hmm.”
“I was hoping there was another explanation,” she said quietly, more to herself than anything.
“Well, there isn’t. And they weren’t men, anyway.”
Willa sat down heavily. “I don’t understand, Kathy. You’re still a child.”
“Was.”
“I don’t understand.”
Kathy sighed. “Remember Scynthia Scallien?”
“Yeah, just a bit,” said Willa distainfully. “What about her?”
“We’re the same thing.”
It was like the floor suddenly dropped away, leaving Willa to flail in space. Weightless, without purchase. All she saw in her mind’s eye was the woman’s face, that mouth. The maw coming to swallow her whole. The air felt thin on her lips. “But… you said you weren’t –”
“No, that’s not what I mean. I mean we are both vrae.”
Willa had seen or heard the word someplace. “Vray?”
“There are thirteen members of the Claret. A number of them, usually seven, are vrae – the Lethal. They make problems disappear.”
“I don’t understand, Kathy. You’re not one of them.”
Kathy squashed another tomato between her teeth, letting the gelatinous seeded flesh bathe her gums before sucking it away. “Vrae are identified during childhood, as early as possible, and then trained every day
after. They start you off with puzzles and mind games. Then physical activities that become more and more challenging the stronger you get. After a while they introduce new subjects: hand-to-hand, close-quarters, weapons, anatomy, pressure points, melee. You know, the quickest ways to kill people. Two hours every morning and two after school. Dinner. Then another hour. The point is to be – well – sort of like invincible when your training ends. When you’re old enough for the Choice, you know what your life will be.”
“Scallien wasn’t invincible.”
“From what you told me, it sounds like Claude got her with a cheap shot,” said Kathy.
“You’re defending her?”
“Just stating the obvious.”
“So, they were going to turn you into an assassin?”
Kathy stopped chewing. “Did.”
“But, you’re just a child!”
“Stop saying that!” Kathy snapped.
The way she looked at Willa was like a slamming door. She was right. Kathy wasn’t a child. Age was one thing, experience another. Her childhood had ended long ago, her innocence replaced by an understanding of the world as it truly was. That life is chaos. That others will take what you do not protect. And that sometimes ending the life of another is the cost of preserving one’s own. Lessons children shouldn’t have to learn, but that Kathy had first-hand. Willa took her wrist. “I’m sorry.”
Kathy stared ahead, chewing another tomato. For a moment, Willa thought she felt the girl softening some, relaxing. Then she muttered, “Cardboard.”
“What?” asked Willa.
“Cardboard,” she repeated. “An empty Box. That’s what I killed them with. It’s sharper, stronger than you think. Neck skin is delicate. You’d be surprised. It’s like banana peel once you get a hole going. They didn’t even realize that their jugulars were open for a good two or three seconds.”
Willa couldn’t respond. Kathy’s mouth unravelled into a grin. She held up her bandaged hand. “Guess it’s only fair one of them got a shot off, huh?”
The Phlebotomist Page 25
