Crucible Zero

by Devon Monk

  I sipped the chocolate and took that moment with Foster to enjoy the rich, simple pleasure. It did a surprising amount of good to my mood.

  Then I set the cup on the table. “You know, I never could have done it without you,” I said. “You believed in the crazy story of a very young girl. If you hadn’t . . .” I shook my head. “You are the one who saved the world, Foster, not me. Thank you.” I reached over, touched his hand gently.

  He smiled, his eyes fatherly and kind.

  “You were lost. Alone and cold. In the rain. The dark graveyard. I had lost. Everything. Family. Children. There you were. Shining light. So alive.” He paused, took a drink of his cocoa.

  I didn’t think I’d ever heard him speak so much all at one time. In the time I was from, speech was hard for him. The experiments he had suffered had left lasting damage. It was comforting to know he was less damaged in this time.

  “Many years I have remembered,” he said. “You saved me. I am proud. Of you, Matilda Case.”

  The knot in my throat was back. It had been years since anyone had told me they were proud of me. The last person to tell me so had been my father, back when I was very young.

  “We make a good team, is all,” I said, pushing away the tears before they had a chance to fall. “Let me take a look at your injuries, okay? We’ll need to be in as good a shape as possible. I think we have a world to save. Again.”

  He shrugged out of his shirts. Looked like I was going to be digging out a few bullets.

  Foster drank cocoa while I unpacked my medical supplies once again.

  10

  Listen, Matilda. You have a problem. I think I have a solution. But finding you is more than impossible. Which doesn’t mean I’m not going to do it anyway.

  —W.Y.

  “Matilda?” Quinten whispered.

  “Right here,” I said from the bunk next to him. Abraham had decided to sleep where he could see the front door, and Foster had bedded down by the back door.

  I’d thought I’d wake up every hour or so to check on Quinten, but from the shadows in the room, I could tell it was almost morning outside. I’d fallen into bed after tending Foster and hadn’t woken once.

  “Where are we?” he whispered.

  I pushed off the blanket and got out of bed. I’d finally given in and taken off my boots, but I was still wearing my pants and T-shirt.

  “We’re in a cabin near the House Earth compound.” I nudged a wooden crate with my foot, then sat next to Quinten’s bed so he could see me.

  “Why?”

  “Do you remember the mercs shooting at us? Or the bus crashing?”

  He frowned. “Yes,” he said. “What time is it? What day is it? Is everyone still alive? Gloria?”

  “It’s the next morning; we’ve just spent the night here. Everyone is alive as far as I know. We all survived the crash, and we didn’t use the radio to try to contact House Earth, though I guess this cabin might have one.”

  “Injuries?” he asked.

  “None of us got out of it without a few bumps and breaks. You cracked your head and gouged your thigh. Neds dislocated a shoulder, and Abraham and Foster have holes in them.”

  “And you?” he asked.

  I decided not to bring up the feral attack. “Just a bump on the head. Made me dizzy for a while, but I’m good as gold now. Before you try sitting up, I’ll want to take another look at your cuts, okay? See if I need to put any more balm on them.”

  “Balm?” he asked.

  “The stuff in the tin can. In the medical supplies.”

  “My medical supplies?” he asked, startled. “You didn’t get into my medical supplies, did you? Tell me you didn’t get into my medical supplies.”

  “Settle down. Neds gave me the balm and the thread I—well, Evelyn—had on hand. What’s so troublesome in your medical supplies?”

  “Nothing,” he said, relieved. “Just . . . nothing.”

  “You’re lying, and I’m offended that you’d think I wouldn’t notice.” I reached over to unwrap the bandage on his head. “Tell me what’s got you so worked up.”

  “Just . . . things you shouldn’t handle. Poisons.”

  “You packed poisons? Putting aside I’d love to know why you think you should travel with them, I’m going to ask you this question first: don’t you think I know how to handle a poison? I’m not stupid.”

  “It’s . . . It doesn’t appear to be poisonous. A dust. You might think it was a powder.”

  “Does this poisonous powder have a name?”

  “Shelley dust.”

  My hand stilled. “You have Shelley dust?”

  “Do you know what that is?”

  “The only compound that can burn out a galvanized’s stitches? Of course I know what it is. I thought only heads of Houses had it.”

  “What? No. No one has it,” he said. “I saw some old references to the mixture and experimented with making some up. For the beasts I make, not for you.”

  “Thanks for that. I didn’t expect you were plotting to kill me.” It was dark enough in the room, I didn’t think I’d be able to see his wound. So I stood and found the small flint striker on the nightstand next to his bed and lit the oil lamp there, turning the wick up high enough to light the room. Since the room was only divided from the rest of the cabin by short walls, I knew everyone else would know we were awake.

  Quinten and I had been talking softly, but the cabin was too small for real privacy.

  “I wasn’t. Although.” He glanced up at me.

  I raised one eyebrow at his guilty look. “You packed it in case you needed to take Abraham or Foster out, didn’t you?”

  “They’re galvanized, Matilda. Dangerous.”

  “So you’ve been telling me. Well, I want you to know that they saved all our lives back there. Pulled us all out of the bus and then took on the mercenaries, killed them, and stole their vehicles so we could find cover for the night. Not the sort of behavior I’d expect out of someone set on seeing us buried.”

  “Actions can be deceiving,” Quinten said in his typical stubborn fashion.

  “Sure. But it would have been a lot easier for them to drag us in like prisoners yesterday, since all of us were injured and easy to overpower if they’d put their minds to it. I may not know exactly what end goal either of them have in mind, but right now, they’re on our side. Mostly.”

  I carefully lifted the pad of cotton and took a good, close look at the swelling and stitches. He was no longer bleeding, and while the wound was still swollen, it didn’t look nearly as bad as it had a few hours ago.

  “I think this is healing nicely,” I said. “How much does it hurt?”

  “Enough,” he said.

  “Do you want painkillers? Or are you going to macho your way through this one to prove something?”

  His eyes settled on my face. “You have a lot to say about everything, don’t you, Matilda?”

  I gave him a quick smile. “Oh, you have no idea. And before you tell me that Evelyn never would have said such a thing. . . . Fine. Maybe you’re right. But I can guarantee she was thinking those things. Because you are stubborn and ridiculous, for a man who’s also supposed to be a genius.”

  “Supposed to be?”

  “Well, I’ve heard you say it over and over again, but what genius thing have you done lately?”

  He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Other than find a cure for the plague?”

  “Untested cure,” I reminded him.

  “It will work.”

  “Good. Then take some painkiller so we can get on the road. This world’s not saving itself, you know. I’ll get you some water.” I stood. “Think you could hold down a little food?”

  “Yes.”

  I turned and walked out.

  Neds were awake and wet-headed, so they�
�d taken the time to shower. The idea of a nice hot shower filled me with envy.

  “Morning, boys,” I said. “Use up all the hot water?”

  “There ain’t no hot water,” Right Ned said. “Plenty of cold still available, though. Help yourself.”

  “Mmm. Might have to pass on that.” I walked over to the sink near the woodstove. The cabin was roomy, but small enough that the woodstove, which someone—likely Foster or Abraham—had kept stoked did a good job chasing the chill out of the air. I found a cup on a shelf, rinsed it out, and filled it with water.

  Then I checked the cupboards for food. Everything was canned provisions. I found a tin of crackers, and decided that would have to do for breakfast.

  “Where are Foster and Abraham?” I asked Neds.

  “Out,” Left Ned said.

  “Because . . . ?” I prompted.

  “Said something about checking the bikes,” Right Ned said.

  “We believe them?”

  “Thought you did,” Right Ned said.

  I glanced at the back door. Wondered if they were really out there doing repairs, or if they were doing something else, like radioing to tell someone they had us and were bringing us in. No, if there was one thing I absolutely trusted in Abraham, it was his anger and need for revenge.

  He wanted Slater dead. And he wanted our help. Or maybe he wanted to trade our trust with House Earth for something he thought would end Slater.

  We had that much in common: the driving need for one man’s death.

  It was a weird way to start a relationship.

  Well, that and that kiss last night.

  “Matilda?” Right Ned asked. “Are you listening?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Sorry. Just a little tired. What with the crashing and shooting and stabbing and all.”

  Neds pushed up off where he was sitting on the couch. “Let me see if I can brew some tea. There must be some leaves here somewhere.”

  My mouth watered and my whole body went tingly with the promise of hot, rich tea. “You don’t need to bother yourself.”

  He stopped, and they both stared at me. “I’ll make tea,” Right Ned said. “Maybe after you fix up your brother, you’ll take a moment to stop tending to the needs of every person around you and tend to yourself a little, Matilda. You’re wounded too.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t whine about it as much as the rest of you.”

  “Ha!” Left Ned crowed.

  Right Ned gave me half a grin that looked like it hurt a little. The swollen eye was spectacularly black now, and the side of his face was sort of an off-yellow mixed with red and green. “Go take him the crackers. There will be tea waiting when you get back.”

  So I went.

  Quinten was sitting on the edge of the bed, both feet over the side, staring at his boots like he was not looking forward to the pain it was going to take to try to put them on his feet.

  “Neds are making tea,” I said, handing him the water.

  “I heard.”

  “Where are the painkillers?” I asked.

  “In my bag. Not the case. We still have my case, don’t we?”

  “Yes. Abraham made sure to drag it out of the bus.”

  “Good. Good. I’ll have to thank him for that.”

  I opened Quinten’s bag and surveyed the jars and tins. “Which one is painkiller?”

  “The red bottle.”

  I plucked up the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and shook two capsules onto my palm. “Two?”

  “Better start with one. I’d like to be awake by the time we reach the compound. Where, exactly, did you say this cabin is located?”

  “I don’t know the markers. We’re a couple hours’ ride outside the compound, though, if that helps any.”

  He swallowed some water, tossed the pill in his mouth, and drank the glass dry.

  “Let’s get something in your stomach for that.” I handed him the cracker tin, and he pulled out a butter wafer and bit it in half.

  “Are you going to keep the painkillers down?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t try to put your boots on. I’d hate for you to fall over and hit your head. Again. We have a limited supply of bandages.”

  “Go get your tea,” he said with a slight wave. “I’m going to sit here until the hammers in my head stop bashing at my skull.”

  I put a second pill down on the nightstand. “Just in case those hammers don’t stop swinging.”

  I walked out again.

  “Shower this way?” I pointed to the right.

  Neds were at the stove. They had water on to boil and were pouring a can of something that smelled like soup into a pot. Left Ned glanced up. “Yep. Towels and soap too.”

  Good enough. The toilet was in a separate small room with a sink. The shower was its own little closet, and looked like it could double for a sauna if all the right things were hooked up to it. Cedar walls, floor, ceiling. A simple shower head with one faucet.

  An oil lamp was hooked on the wall, and I found the striker hanging next to it. I lit that, and wished the soft yellow light would warm the air.

  Cold water; cold room. I was so not looking forward to this, but I needed to wash the stink and dirt off more than I hated the idea of cold.

  This was one time when I wished I had the limited sense of sensation, like most other galvanized.

  I shut the door and locked it, then took my time getting out of my clothes. One, because I had a head injury and didn’t want to fall over or pass out. Two, because I was sore, and wanted to really pay attention to where my injuries might be.

  There was a mirror on the wall, large enough I could see myself from head to waist. And there were hooks set behind the door for my clothes.

  I got naked, then stood in front of the mirror. I had a small bruise at the edge of my jaw that was purple lined in red. A much, much bigger bruise covered one side of my chest and my shoulder. I knew I’d hit that more than once in the tumble down the hillside. Several small, shallow cuts crossed my torso.

  The worst of my wounds seemed to be the tear in the line of stitching under my breast. I’d have to sew that up for sure, before it infected.

  I leaned in toward the mirror to try to get a good look at it. The thread was torn out along my rib cage too.

  That was going to be a damned awkward place to try to self-sew. I wasn’t even sure I could get the right angle on it.

  Which meant I’d need to ask someone to stitch me up.

  My brother? My not-lover? Foster? Neds?

  Who did I want to be naked in front of?

  None of them right now. But this was no time to be worried about a little nudity.

  I checked my legs—bruised in various places—then turned and tried to get a good look at my back.

  My butt was bruised, especially the left cheek. No wonder the bike ride had been so uncomfortable.

  I couldn’t see all of my back, but didn’t feel any cuts splitting as I twisted and craned.

  Good enough. And since I couldn’t put off the cold water any longer, I thought hot thoughts—yes, they were all of Abraham, and he was all naked—then turned on the faucet, got in, and dunked.

  I yelped from the cold and from the scrape on my head that felt even colder than the rest of me. I turned off the water and shivered as I worked soap over my goose-prickly body.

  I was shaking pretty hard by the time I’d gotten sudsy. Turned the water back on and rinsed off for as long as I could stand it. Turned the water off, took a couple hard breaths, and turned it back on again.

  My teeth were chattering by the time I stepped out from the shower. I grabbed a towel off the shelf and wrapped it around my shivering body. Then I took another towel—maybe a waste of a clean towel, but I couldn’t bring myself to take off the towel on my body yet—and carefully tw
isted water out of my hair. I patted the towel down my shoulders, arms, and legs.

  I glanced at my dirty clothes, and just couldn’t make myself put them on again. I had a change of clothes in my duffel, which I’d forgotten to bring into the bathroom with me.

  No problem. I gathered up the dirty clothes, and with the towel still wrapped around me, I stepped out into the main room.

  Neds glanced over from the stove and didn’t seem at all worried about my state of undress. “Food when you’re ready,” Left Ned said. “If you don’t mind soup for breakfast.”

  “Also, tea,” Right Ned said.

  “Smells amazing. I’ll be right out.”

  I walked into the sleeping area, and Quinten still sat on the side of the bed. “How was the water?”

  “Any colder, and I’d have to chip it out of the pipes with an ice pick,” I said. “But I feel better. I can heat some on the stove for you, if you want.”

  “No. We don’t have time. And they have warm showers at the compound.”

  “Now you tell me,” I said.

  He smiled slightly and raised his hand toward his hair, but stopped halfway and rubbed at his forehead instead.

  “How’s the pain?”

  “Better,” he said.

  “Are you feeling up for some stitching?”

  “For whom?”

  “Me.”

  “You’re hurt?”

  “Just tore some stitches.” I slipped the towel down and turned, angling my arm so my breast was covered and so he could see the unstitched bit along my ribs. “Not too bad, but I know that broken stitches can mean me breaking. And I’d rather not have to find a new set of ribs.”

  Yes, I said it like it was a common thing. But the truth was, I’d never actually come apart since the day my brother had implanted my mind into Evelyn’s body. Well, mostly Evelyn’s body. She was the one who had had bits taken off and put back on during her three-hundred-year coma.

  And as long as my stitches were solid and replaced every now and then if they broke, my body parts—we hoped—wouldn’t need to be replaced for a long time. Maybe even an hundred years.

  Quinten held up his hand, which shook terribly.

  “I can do it,” he said.