The Ward

by Frankel, Jordana

  The drawers are mostly empty, or filled with papers.

  Except for one. In it, a small wooden box with words carved on the lid: “Bellum Pesti—” I can’t read the rest, so I reach down.

  Brack. Crisscrossed red laser lights web across the drawer. Overhead, a siren sounds. But the water? I’ve found nothing. . . .

  Except, there’s no time.

  Beelining to the airlock, I push aside ottomans and guitar cases, framed paintings and old leather trunks. The hatch is closing all on its own even though I left it open specifically so I could make a quick getaway. The alarm must’ve triggered it. I duck low to the floor and, sticking my feet through first, wiggle myself back into the pressurized room—

  With only two inches to spare. And still in one piece. I get no chance for relief though.

  My feet . . . they’re losing their balance—

  The grate slides away. Opens up to a cavernous water-filled space below. I fall to one side, avoiding the gap. Pretty soon, though, there’s gonna be nowhere left to stand.

  Then, from a dozen nearly invisible vents, clouds of vapor fog up the room.

  What the hell is that?

  I hold my breath as long as I can while trying to keep my footing. Looking down, I notice that not only is the grate moving, the water that drained down earlier is now rising up. I reach for the handle on the first hatch and turn, expecting it not to budge.

  The wheel rotates easily.

  This makes me stop—too easy. It makes no sense. Unless whatever just came out of those vents was supposed to do something to me, but failed.

  Something tells me not to take the bait. Something also tells me not to stand around like an idiot. Call it a hunch . . . call it intuition. I think there’s a spring down there, wherever that water is coming up from. I brace myself, glad I’m wearing Callum’s neoprene suit, and kneel at the edge.

  Then, I dive-roll in.

  My forehead, and after that my cheeks, are the first to burn from the freeze. Neoprene keeps the rest of me warmish, but it’s still a shock.

  A few feet down and light’s just a memory. I flick open my cuffcomm and activate the laser light on the side. It’s small, not made for this sort of thing, but bright enough to shine a path.

  Too bad my frog stroke ain’t exactly conducive to keeping a beam steady. Every time my left wrist pushes through the water, the light shines backward in the opposite direction. I wish I had one of those silly flashlights that you attach to your head.

  Though I know I’m swimming deeper, the temperature doesn’t seem like it’s getting colder. Warmer, maybe. But definitely not colder. My eyes start to burn from the brack water, but this tunnel is too small for me to want to keep my eyes shut.

  Then the first pang of air hunger hits.

  I swallow the gasp my body wants to take, and keep on.

  Eventually, my fingers stop grazing the sides. The space widens. I wave my wrist ahead, just in time to follow the change in direction. A curve, and I’m swimming back toward the surface. My Hessians drag me down. I should leave them, kick them off.

  Never. Now we’ve really been through too much together.

  Air hunger pang two . . .

  I open my mouth a bit, let some air escape. That helps, like there’s less pressure inside me. As I close my mouth, I notice the water—it don’t taste salty.

  Once more, I take in the tiniest bit.

  Sure enough, the taste is sweet. Somewhere in this tunnel, the water went from bitter brackish to fresh. I must have hit another pocket that bleeds into the Strait, mixing together.

  Then, all of a sudden, I’m warm. Warmer than warm. The neoprene has locked in my heat, and I’m actually sweating. I must be close, but even with the light from my cuffcomm, there’s no way to be sure.

  I keep pulling myself up and up.

  Through the blur—I must be imagining it—the sides of the tunnel seem to be glowing. Bright green? Dots of speckled neon. Just as I grapple with air hunger pang three, my head breaks the surface.

  I gasp, sucking down air, fighting the wave of dizziness that follows. My arms flail, exhausted, and my beloved boots keep trying to drown me—but looking around, I see I was right. Under the surface, all around me, the walls of the cavern are spotted with the stuff. I dunk my head again and swim closer.

  Through the underwater blur, the stuff is unidentifiable . . . some sort of plant, I think, but what do I know? So I pluck a few from the side of the wall’s slick mushiness, and swim back for air. Once I’m breathing again, I look down into my palm.

  The neon-green spots—they’re tiny, glowing mushrooms, with droopy tentlike caps and nearly invisible stems.

  So, basically—aliens.

  These must be the plants that the phytothingies come from. I should take a whole bunch of them, ’cause if I’m right, they’re probably going to have the antiviral goodies that the spring water was missing.

  And . . .

  I guess the jury’s still out on whether Callum will be needing my blood for this evening’s science experiment.

  I swipe a few fistfuls of the extraterrestrial buggers from the tunnel walls for him, then pull the waterproof sack from my side to fill up with fresh. The weight of the sack, plus the liquid inside, drags me under slightly. The trip back will take longer for sure.

  I don’t wait.

  Sliding the sack over my shoulder, I take one final breath of air and dive under, following the cavern back the way I came. My cuffcomm lights the way, enough so that I don’t swim into the sides. I keep my feet kicking and wait for the air hunger pangs.

  Every few strokes, I stick my tongue out. The longer I taste the sweet, the more anxious I become. Return trips always pass quicker, I remind myself.

  This time, when the temperature shifts suddenly to cold, I feel it like a glacier. I’m chilled straight through despite the neoprene, and soon, my fingers are numb. Then, the first hunger pang hits.

  I’m ready for it. I know how to swallow it, choke it back down to where it came from. I feel the round of the curve, start to swim up again. When I stick my tongue out again, the water finally tastes normal. Like brack.

  I’m close.

  Time passes—I’m gonna make it. I can see light coming from the pressurized room’s ceiling, and the tunnel has started to narrow. My fingers graze the sides. One final push forward . . .

  I reach for air—the light’s right there, right on the ceiling. But instead, my fingers graze metal.

  I’m touching the ceiling.

  How am I touching the ceiling?

  Then I remember . . . when I dove into the tunnel, the space filled up after me.

  I open my mouth; I swallow gulps of brack water because there’s no air in the room. None at all.

  38

  5:00 P.M., SUNDAY

  My chest spasms. A burning spreads throughout.

  Backpedaling through the water, I reach for the first latch. Using hands I can’t feel, I rotate. The door lifts up, and I shimmy myself underneath, finding myself outside the building once again. A hundred plus feet to the surface.

  Not too far off, the thrum of an engine stirs the underwater silence. As the dull sound grows clearer, I’d bet money it’s not just everyday canal traffic. A bright beam of light like a neon-green laser cuts through the murk. Whoever’s in that mobile is cutting beneath the boardwalk—not a good sign, so I swim upward, again fighting the weight of my Hessians. I kick and kick but they weigh me down like boulders.

  You’re staying on my feet, y’hear? I tell the both of them, pulling myself closer to the purple Omni. That bright beam closes in, shines on me directly. I feel like an underwater Santa, with this big red sack over my shoulder. Whoever is manning that other mobile will see me, too.

  The engine thrashes my way.

  I dive under Callum’s mobile, where I pull myself into its belly and close the bottom barrel door. At the telltale muted click, I push another button—green this time—and immediately start gagging, retching u
p water, while the water trapped in the hatch gets sucked out a series of one-way pipes.

  It drains away in a rush, and I damned near have a make-out session with the roof, I’m so starved for air. Within moments, only an inch or so of water is left in the airlock crawl space, but I’ve got no time. A tide sweeps by, rocking the Omni, and I open the hatch into the pit.

  The floor will flood slightly. So be it.

  Just then, my neck jolts forward, whips back. A garbled crunch, then I see the other mobile—also an Omni, sleek and black—lurching from the collision.

  Oh no.

  I shove in the key and hit the acceleration, not caring about a case of repeat whiplash.

  My Omni jolts forward, but it feels heavier—like it’s dragging in the back. Bright neon draws my eye to the dashboard. On the screen, an outline of Callum’s Omni flashes. The airlock hatch flashes, too. Both red.

  That crunch I heard wasn’t just external damage. The airlock is filling up with water—it’s gonna drive slower than it ought to. I check the steam and gas levels; both are in good supply. Still, I hope it can get up enough speed.

  I keep driving straight, knuckles bone white against the wheel. Above, a circular brass button. If that is what I think it is . . . I push it.

  Yes—a brass periscope extends downward. The lens falls to about eye level. For someone not five feet tall. I curse all the non–vertically challenged Omni manufacturers out there.

  If I lift my butt up, I can easily see the other mobile behind me.

  I force myself to ease my grip on the wheel, notice I’m holding my breath. Again. I exhale, willing a slower rhythm onto my heart.

  Whoever’s riding me, they’re maybe only fifteen feet back.

  I can do this. I’ve made it so damned far. I’m Santa. I have the water.

  I remind myself of that fact, thinking it’ll comfort me, but instead it sets my nerves wild. I’ve just reminded myself how much there is to lose.

  Now it’s not just Aven—it’s every HBNC-infected person in the Ward.

  But the very thing that set my nerves off is the same thing that calms them. I think of Aven. How she’d scold me first for landing myself in this mess, and next give me a kiss on the cheek for finally doing something she’d approve of. That makes me laugh.

  The other mobile and I are both stuck in this narrow alley, brick walls on either side and only a few inches of wiggle room. One sideways rip and I’m crunchy toast. But I have to turn soon. If I keep straight, I’ll end up in a suicidal brick maze of gutters like this one. Not smart.

  I need to get under an avenue.

  I tear my eyes away from the periscope and buckle myself into the seat.

  This is gonna hurt.

  Turning off the back props entirely, I wrestle with the wheel as the mobile slows. “Don’t hit the walls, now,” I say out loud, and flick on the belly props. The Omni shoots up to the surface.

  I still need to get out of here though, and the nearest avenue is behind me. There’s also no room to turn around.

  Looks like I’m going to have to steer upside down.

  The teensiest, most minuscule part of me is excited; I’ve always wanted to do this. Never could, what with my Rimbo and all. I just wish it didn’t have to happen now. There’s a bit too much on the line for me to be entirely comfortable with death-defying mobile stunts.

  But it’s the quickest way out.

  I pull back on the steering wheel, angling her up, up, and over. Soon enough, I’m dangling from my seat. The belt digs into the tops of my thighs—I feel myself slipping, but my butt will hold me well enough. At the beeping noise, I look around the pit, then realize it’s coming from my cuffcomm. It’s gotta be Callum—I can’t look now, though. I jam on the accelerator. Propelled forward, my Omni grazes over the other’s domed glass roof.

  I won’t slow down—I’m not that stupid—and really, I don’t need to see her face. I only need one guess. The girl looks up through the glass and even if all I saw was her long, straight, black hair, I’d recognize her. But I see the eyes too. Coal dark, set beneath high, arched eyebrows. It’s Kitaneh.

  Shocking. Anger snakes through my chest. The girl tried to kill Callum. . . .

  She watches me hurtle past.

  Maybe I am that stupid.

  I blow her a kiss, then shove my middle finger up against the glass of the roof.

  My Omni takes off for Mad Ave. If I can get her to follow me underneath the boardwalk—the super-crowded-with-innocents boardwalk—I’m hoping that she won’t want to risk an accident.

  I’m just hoping that there’s a heart in there. Somewhere. Even though she kills people by protecting a spring that could save people. I know what she said, about it not being medicine. But she gave me no reason. Why not. Why can’t it be?

  Either way, alls I know is that she wants back what I’ve got in my rubber sack.

  I race to the end of the building, aiming to cut an L around it and lift the Omni closer to the walkway. Blood rushes to my head and I feel like gravity is going to drop me out of my seat, but the belt holds tight. This move is a gamble, but Kitaneh is way closer than she should be. Clearly, I’ve angered the beast.

  Then I feel the waves rocking behind me, even with my lead. A quick glance in the periscope shows me that she’s pulled the same upside-down whirligig.

  I wheel to the right, or left, since I’m upside down. In the semi-open water beneath the boardwalk, I straighten out the Omni. The veins in my head—practically mountains growing out from my forehead by now—return to normal size, and the relief of all the blood flooding back to its proper places nearly blacks me out.

  I’m only a few feet below the walk when I see the shadow of her Omni behind me.

  On the dash, my VoiceNav screen lights up, shows me TV snow. But I didn’t turn it on . . . ?

  “Omni-to-Omni comm request. Do you accept the transmission?” the nav system’s synth voice asks me.

  I look at the gray screen, unsure. This is not a feature my Rimbo has, nor is it one I want Benny to install, ever.

  Do I accept? All she’s going to do is try to convince me to give the water back. That, or she’ll tell me that she’s going to kill me. Neither of which I care to hear.

  But . . . I’m curious.

  “Yes,” I say, and it still feels strange speaking into the air.

  The snow flickers in and out, is replaced by Kitaneh’s face, cool and unfazed, on my dash. “You accepted,” she says, arching her brows. Then, with a nod, “Thank you.”

  Not quite the reaction I’d expected, I think, realizing how little I know about this girl—this ancient girl. And all of a sudden, I feel bad for her. I feel bad that she married Derek, and that he would go behind her back kissing girls like me. Who are, like, 3 percent her age.

  “You’re welcome . . . ,” I answer, quietly.

  The screen goes gray for a moment, then all I hear is her voice: “Please . . .” she pleads, and I’m sure I look as shocked as I’m feeling. She’s saying please? Then her voice grows harder. “You think you’re doing the right thing, and perhaps . . .” She cuts out, but it’s not because of the connection. She’s stopped speaking. When her face returns to my dash, she looks desperate. Tired.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” she says. “But the risk is too great. Governor Voss is no fool. Until the airdrop happens, he’ll be waiting for us. He’ll be on the lookout to see what we do.”

  Though Kitaneh is probably right—he will be—I’m too close to give up. The sack is full; my sister’s life is in there and so are all the other sick. “I’m sorry,” I say, reaching for the button to drop the call.

  Just before I press it, I hear: “Forgive me—”

  The line goes silent.

  I check the periscope again.

  She’s still way too close—I have to lose her. So I zigzag, the best thing to do when someone’s coming after you like this. You can’t just zigzag, though, ’cause then that becomes a pattern, and they’ll just catc
h on. I weave between the boardwalk’s pylons, mixing it around—one, one, one, then skipping two or three and crossing over to the other side’s row.

  I can’t keep this up.

  The tank holds only enough gas to keep the steamer boiling water. It’ll be empty soon. Is that her plan? Skunk me out till I got no place to go but hell in a handbag? Her Omni don’t have laser guns or anything, so it’s not like she could blow me outta the water.

  Then it dawns on me.

  That’s exactly what she’ll try and do. I know full well she’d like to end me—all she’s gotta do is keep tailing me until I blow me outta the water. Collide with something. A wall. A pylon. Anything hard enough to make smithereens of me.

  Okay, I think. I can work with that.

  Once more I reach for the periscope. I bring my eye to it, but I’m too late—all I see is the bullet-shaped nose of her Omni clipping my tail.

  My own Omni careens forward—I twist the wheel away from pylons, but one of them swipes my side anyway. If this were above water, I’d be setting off in a tailspin to the moon right now. But we’re not, so the mobile just reels out, then slows.

  I regain control, but something feels off kilter.

  At first, I hear a hiss. Like there’s a water snake trapped in the mobile. Then, from the battered side that took the blow, a spray of water shoots through. I’m struck in the jugular by so much pressure, I don’t know how it doesn’t pierce skin.

  I need to end this. I need to end this now. And I can think of a perfectly good, possibly suicidal way.

  If Kitaneh wants me to smash myself into a brick wall . . . well, that’s exactly what I’ll do.

  39

  5:15 P.M., SUNDAY

  I swallow so loud, I can hear it in my ears. This better work—and by “work” I mean, in one hour I get to hear Callum ream me out for pancaking his Omni. That right there?

  Best-case scenario.

  ‘Cause if I’m listening to him yell at me, it means I’m alive. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Of all my plans . . . this one is by far the craziest.