Pure

by Julianna Baggott

“Jesus!” Ingership shouts, ducking into the window. “That’s not civilized!”

  In a delayed reaction, one of the recruits shoots the side of their car.

  El Capitan fires again, this time taking out a downstairs window.

  “Stop!” Partridge says.

  “I wasn’t going to hit him,” El Capitan says.

  “Hit him,” Helmud says.

  “It’s okay now,” Partridge says. “We’re not shooting.”

  “Your father could have this place surrounded,” Ingership shouts at Partridge. “He could have already gunned you down. You know that, boy? He’s playing nice with you!”

  Partridge knows he’s wrong. Special Forces is a very new elite corps. There were six, all dead now. He knows those who were next in line—the academy boys who were part of the herd. But they couldn’t be ready for battle like Special Forces. There hasn’t been enough time for that kind of transformation and training.

  “He wants something and we have it,” Partridge says. “It’s that simple.”

  Ingership pauses. “You have the medication from the bunker?”

  “Do you have the remote switch that explodes Pressia’s head?” Bradwell counters.

  “We’ll make a deal,” Partridge says.

  Ingership disappears. There’s some noise from the upstairs window. The two recruits on the porch keep their guns poised on them.

  Then a deep buzz rises from the house, a release of the automatic rubber seals that keep out the ash.

  The front door clicks and then swings wide.

  In the upper window with the bloody hand towel, Partridge sees a white face—Ingership’s wife?—then a pale hand pressed to the glass pane.

  PRESSIA

  BOATS

  THEY STEP INTO THE FRONT HALL—the chair rails, white walls, the flowered runner, and wide stairs leading to the second floor. It floods Pressia with a sharp sense of being penned, trapped. She still holds the bottle to her head, her fingers stiff, her entire body aching. She looks into the dining room; again she’s startled by the brilliance of the chandelier trembling over the long table. She hears footsteps overhead—Ingership’s wife? The chandelier makes Pressia think of her grandfather, the picture of him in the hospital bed. She tries to remember that feeling of hopefulness, but then recalls the dinner knife in her hand, the latex gloves, the burning in her stomach, and how the doorknob wouldn’t turn. It only clicked and then the click quickly becomes the trigger of the gun, the jolt of it in her arm, up into her shoulder. She squeezes her eyes shut for a second then opens them.

  The two soldiers keep their guns trained on them. Ingership appears at the top of the stairs and walks down to greet them. A bit unsteady on his feet, he slides his hand along the mahogany railing. There are claw marks on one cheek. Pressia thinks of Ingership’s wife. Is she locked in that bedroom? Was there a fight?

  “Leave all your weapons here,” Ingership says. “My men will too. We’re not barbarians.”

  “Only if we can pat you down too,” Bradwell says.

  “Fine. But trust is an undervalued stock, if you ask me.”

  “Looks like you’ve been expecting us,” Partridge says.

  “There are things that the Dome chooses to tell me, and I’m one of your father’s confidants.”

  “Really.” Partridge sounds doubtful. And from what little Pressia knows about Ellery Willux, she doubts he has any confidants, much less Ingership as one. Willux doesn’t seem like the confiding type.

  “All weapons on the lowboy,” Ingership says, pointing to the table along the wall.

  They put down their guns and knives and hooks, as do the recruits, nervously. El Capitan pats down his own soldiers. He looks them in the eyes, but they look away. Pressia assumes he’s trying to gauge their loyalty. They didn’t shoot him when he opened fire in the yard. Only one of them shot the car. Does this mean that their loyalty is divided? If Pressia was one of them, she’d do what they’re doing, which is playing both sides, trying to survive.

  Bradwell pats down Ingership. Later, Pressia thinks she’ll ask him what it was like. How much of him is real? Did the metal on half of his face exist all down one side of his body? It might, she thinks. Pressia wonders what Bradwell thinks of her now. Her cheek holds on to the memory of his warm skin, the pounding of his heart. Her finger remembers his cut lip. She told him not to die, and he promised he would try not to. Does he feel for her the way she feels for him—a headlong, heart-pounding rush? She’s lost so much, and all she knows now is that she can’t lose him. Not ever.

  The soldiers pat them down, taking turns. Pressia stands next to Lyda. The soldiers run their hands over their bodies quickly.

  “I don’t like being shot at,” Ingership says to El Capitan.

  “Who does?” El Capitan says.

  “Who does?” Helmud says.

  “The soldiers will accompany me, just for good measure,” Ingership says, “and the girls will wait in the parlor.”

  Pressia stiffens. She looks at Lyda, who shakes her head. The parlor stands to their left. It’s filled with drapes and overstuffed furniture and throw pillows.

  “No, thanks,” Pressia says. She thinks of the back room of the barbershop, the cabinet that she once hid in. No more hiding. She thinks of the smiley face she drew in ash. Gone now, ash layered upon ash. She’s not going back to hiding or being hidden.

  “Wait in the parlor!” Ingership shouts so loudly that it startles Pressia.

  Lyda glances at Pressia then says calmly, “We’ll do what we want.”

  Ingership’s skin burns brightly, the scratches flaring. He looks at El Capitan, Bradwell, Partridge. “Well?” He expects them to do something.

  They look at one another.

  Bradwell shrugs. “Well what? They gave you their answer.”

  Ingership says, “Well, I won’t let their ugly stubbornness derail us.” He turns on the stairs and begins to climb, taking each step one at a time. At the top of the stairs, he unlocks a door with a key on a chain in his pocket.

  They step into what first seems to be a large, sterile operating room. Under the windows there’s a counter of metal trays, small knives, swabs, gauze, and a tank of what must be anesthesia. They all pack in around an operating table. Pressia imagines that this is where they must have taken her to install the bugs and the ticker. She remembers none of it—except maybe the wallpaper. Pressia puts her doll-head fist up to it for a moment, keeping the pills close to her skull. The wallpaper is pale green with small boats. They look strangely familiar. Is this what she saw when she came to for a moment on the table, small boats with puffy sails?

  “You perform a lot of surgeries in here?” Bradwell asks.

  “Some,” Ingership says.

  The soldiers look anxious; they keep their eyes on Ingership and El Capitan, unsure who might bark an order at them next.

  “Go collect my fine wife,” Ingership says to one of them.

  The soldier nods and disappears. There’s a knock down the hall, voices, scuffling. A door being closed. He returns with Ingership’s wife. Her hands and face are still covered with the full-body stocking, stitched to expose only her eyes and mouth and a full wig of honeyed hair. She’s wearing a long skirt and white high-collared blouse stained with blood that’s seeped up from her skin through the stocking and onto her clothes, like dark waterstains. Her body stocking is ripped on one hand so that her fingers are poking through. Some of the fingers are bruised bluish as if freshly twisted. This may be how Ingership got his scratches. The stocking is also torn on one side of her jaw, revealing pale skin, a dark bruise, and two welts that look almost like fresh burns. Pressia tries to remember exactly what Ingership’s wife said to her in the kitchen. I won’t put you in harm’s way. Did Ingership’s wife help Pressia? If so, how?

  Ingership points to a small leather stool in a far corner. His wife scrambles quickly across the room and takes a seat. Once she sits, Pressia thinks she looks like a dummy wrapped in a stocking, the kind u
sed for effigies of Pures. Kids like to do that sometimes, setting them on fire. But her eyes are very alive, flitting and blinking. She looks into all of their faces. Her eyes catch on Bradwell’s face, as if she recognizes him and wants him to recognize her. But he doesn’t seem to. She then looks at Pressia, fleetingly, and lowers her eyes again.

  Pressia nods to her, unsure how to read her expressionless features.

  She nods in return. And then she quickly lowers her gaze, keeping her eyes locked on her exposed fingers. Is Pressia supposed to save her?

  “Was this once a baby’s nursery?” Lyda asks quietly, perhaps to break the tension.

  “We are not to reproduce,” Ingership says. “Official orders. Right, dear?”

  Pressia is confused. Official orders? Then Partridge and Lyda exchange a glance. They would know the rules well enough. Pressia figures some are allowed to reproduce, others are denied.

  “The box?” Ingership says to his wife.

  She stands and picks up something near the surgical instruments, a small circular metal container with a metal switch on hinges. It’s connected to a long trail of wires fitted into an outlet in the wall. She sits on the leather stool again, holding it in her lap.

  Bradwell lunges forward. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  The sudden movement frightens Ingership’s wife. She clutches the switch to her chest.

  “Steady now,” Ingership says. “My sweet wife is skittish these days.” He waves his hands near her and she flinches. “See?” She cowers like the dog that used to live near the lean-tos, the one Pressia used to feed sometimes, that was shot by OSR.

  “We have what you want,” Partridge says. “Let’s just stay calm.”

  “Where do you think you’re going to go from here?” Ingership asks Partridge. “This is what I don’t understand. There is no future out here, but you could still go back, you know. You could do penance. Your father would return you to the fold. He’d have no use for these others.” He waves at the rest of the group dismissively. “But you, you could have a life.”

  “I don’t want to be brought into a fold. I’d rather die fighting.”

  Pressia believes him. She’s underestimated him, maybe mistaking his lack of experience in this world for weakness.

  “I bet you get your wish!” Ingership says lightly.

  “Just disarm it, Ingership!” El Capitan shouts.

  “And you,” Ingership says. “You with the retard on your back. What will happen to you? You’ll never win. Nothing you believe in actually exists. Your soldiers aren’t even your own soldiers! It’s the Dome’s world still, wherever you look, as far as you can see.”

  El Capitan glances at the two soldiers. “Don’t lose sleep over it, Ingership. You know I’ll be fine.”

  “Fine,” Helmud says.

  “My wife has been acting up ever since your visit, Pressia. Very uppity. A cruel man would have sent her out to fend for herself in the wilds and die. But I was kind. I simply administered penance. And look at her now—so civil. If I told her at this moment to flip the switch, she would. Even though she’s a very delicate creature by nature, she’s obedient.” He looks at his wife imperiously. This is all a show, but Pressia’s not sure if it’s for their benefit or the Dome’s or if it’s something more personal, playing out publicly with a captive audience.

  Ingership steps toward Pressia, who tightens her grip on the pills held to her head. “What if I told you they’re coming. They’re on their way. Special Forces. Reinforcements. And not just half a dozen. No, a full platoon.”

  “You’re lying,” Lyda says. “If Willux wanted them here, he’d have brought them in already.” Pressia isn’t sure if she’s right or not, but she admires Lyda’s conviction.

  “Are you speaking to me?” Ingership says. He walks to Lyda and slaps her with the back of his hand. She spins and grabs the wall to steady herself. Pressia feels a wick of fury light within her stomach.

  Partridge reaches out and grabs the lapels of Ingership’s uniform. “Who do you think you are?” His grip is so tight that it’s cutting off Ingership’s oxygen.

  Still, Ingership stares at Partridge coolly. “You’re on the wrong side,” he grunts. Without looking at his wife, he says, “Flip the switch.”

  “Don’t!” Bradwell shouts.

  Ingership’s wife’s fingers touch the switch lightly, nervously—the way a delicate creature would.

  “She’s still young,” Bradwell says softly. “She’s just lost her mother. Imagine. A child without a mother.” Pressia understands what he’s doing. Ingership’s wife isn’t allowed to have children. But once, they were expecting. Weren’t they? Why else wallpaper a room the way one would a nursery? He’s playing on this memory, this softness. “Have mercy on her. You can save her.”

  Ingership manages to shout one last time, “Flip the switch!”

  She looks at her husband and then does as she’s told. She flips the switch. Pressia draws in a deep breath, and Bradwell tackles Ingership’s wife, knocking the box to the ground, where it shatters. Everyone in the room stiffens. There’s no explosion.

  Inside Pressia’s ears, she hears a dull tick—just one in each ear—and then her ears are no longer so muffled. The lenses in her eyes go blank for a moment, and she sees nothing. But it doesn’t last. Before she can even cry out, her vision is back and clear—no longer clouded.

  Partridge releases Ingership, shoving him into the wall.

  “What happened?” Partridge says.

  “I’m alive. I can see and hear clearer. In fact, everything sounds loud—even my own voice.” Pressia lets her hand with the pill bottle drop to her side.

  Ingership’s wife stands up. “I never activated the ticker. I switched the wiring. If anyone flipped the switch, it would only deactivate the bugs. I said I wouldn’t put you in harm’s way. I promised.” She turns to Pressia. “You must take me.”

  “They’ll kill us for this,” Ingership shouts at his wife. He’s breathless, slouching against one of the walls. “Do you know that? They’ll kill us!”

  “For now, they think she’s dead,” Ingership’s wife says. “We have time to escape.”

  Ingership stares at his wife in total shock. “You had this planned?”

  “Yes.”

  “You even dithered before flipping the switch while I was being choked so they would think you didn’t want to kill her.”

  “I’m a delicate creature.”

  “You disobeyed me! You betrayed me!” Ingership shouts.

  “No,” she says, her voice sounding distant and airy. “I saved us so we could have time to escape.”

  “Escape into what world? To become wretches?”

  Ingership’s wife seems dizzy. She reaches for the drapes above the counter and hangs on to them for support. Her face contorts beneath the stocking. She lets out a cry.

  Pressia looks at Lyda, a red mark and a cut on her cheekbone from Ingership’s ring. “She saved me,” Pressia says.

  Ingership throws himself at the counter and pulls out a gun from the low cabinet. He stands, training it on Partridge. “I could kill you and now, without the eyes and ears, your daddy would never know.” He shouts at his soldiers. “Grab them!”

  But the soldiers don’t move. They look at El Capitan, and then at Ingership.

  El Capitan says, “They don’t really respect you, Ingership, even with a gun. Do they?”

  The soldiers are still frozen.

  “I’ll kill you myself, one at a time,” Ingership says. He points the gun at Bradwell’s face. “You think he doesn’t know who you are?”

  “What are you talking about?” Bradwell says.

  “Willux knows everything about you and the people you come from.”

  Bradwell’s eyes narrow. “My parents? What does he know about my parents?”

  “Do you think he’s going to let a son of theirs challenge him?”

  “What does he know about them?” Bradwell takes a step toward Ingership and th
e muzzle he’s pointing at Bradwell’s chest. “Tell me now.”

  “He wouldn’t mind adding you to his collection. Little relics. I know that I, for one, would prefer you dead.”

  “His collection?” Partridge says.

  Ingership’s wife pulls too hard on the gauzy curtains. They pop loose from the hooks. She jerks back, nearly losing her balance. She turns behind her husband’s back, seemingly trapped in the white gauze, cocooned, but there’s something bright in her hand.

  A scalpel.

  She steps forward, the curtain dropping like a dress to the floor. She drives the scalpel into her husband’s back.

  He cries out, dropping the gun. It slides across the tile. Ingership arches and falls to the floor. Lyda picks up the gun and holds it steady, aimed at Ingership, who’s writhing, the scalpel dug into his back. He smears his own blood.

  Bradwell kneels next to him on the floor. “What about my parents? What has Willux told you about them?”

  “Wife!” Ingership screams. But it’s unclear whether he’s calling desperately for help or out of anger.

  “My parents,” Bradwell shouts. “Tell me what Willux has said about them.”

  Ingership clenches his eyes shut. “Wife!” he calls again.

  She reaches her fingernails into the rip in the stocking by her jaw and tears it from her face. A loud cry bursts from her chest. She pulls away the wig, showing her fine, matted, russet hair. Her face is covered in old scars, yes, but also fresh bruises, more welts and burns. Pressia can tell that she was once beautiful.

  Ingership, on the bloody floor, shouts out, “Wife! Get the pills!”

  “They’re worthless,” Partridge says.

  Ingership rocks on one shoulder. “Wife, come here. I need you. I’m burning!”

  Ingership’s wife lurches to the wall. She rests her cheek against it and lightly touches the wallpaper, just one boat, just one.

  For a moment, this seems like the dizzying end of everything. Bradwell stands up and looks down at Ingership. His eyes blink and stare off. He’s dying. Bradwell won’t get any information about his parents now. He walks over to Pressia and pulls her to him. She tucks her head under his chin. He holds her tightly. “I thought she’d killed you,” he says. “I thought you were gone.”