Fear My Mortality

by Everly Frost

  They were probably about to rush into my room to find the smears all over the carpet leading to the window and the fire escape.

  Right on cue, a shout rose from deep inside the house. They’d tear apart my room, trying to find me, expecting me to be hidden in a cupboard, under the bed, even leaping from the window. They wouldn’t look out this end of the house. Not yet, anyway.

  I glanced down once to check that there were no men patrolling the garden underneath me, but I couldn’t see any. That didn’t mean they weren’t there. If I made it to the roof unseen, I’d consider myself lucky. I sought purchase on the edge of the roof, scrabbled one hand on the steel roofing, trying to find a notch—anything—that I could use to latch onto when I released my other hand. It was smooth and impossible to grip.

  The pale green roof blurred and I realized that I had tears in my eyes, or sweat, I couldn’t tell which, but either way it made me mad. I wasn’t going to get this far and then fail.

  Then, to my surprise, I found it. Right there in the perfect place to lever my hand—a hollowed out crescent with a soft pad around the edge. I used all my strength to wrench the rest of my body up and onto the safety of the roof.

  I rolled away from the edge, panting, the sun beating down on me, burning steel under my back, and the deep pressure of a glass shard that I’d forgotten about. I jerked upward and yanked it out, crunching my jaw to stop from crying. As the relief of having made it onto the roof flowed through me, so did the pain.

  Once I was safe, I’d find out how badly I was hurt. For now, my wounds would have to wait.

  There were voices, closer below, standing on the inside of the door to the deck. They’d be trying to decide whether to come out, and I wasn’t about to give them any reason to. The neighborhood watch drone never traveled this high, but it would only take one curious Hazard to direct a wasp skyward and I’d be discovered.

  I crawled along to the main roof, where there was a crevice formed between two decorative peaks—a place to hide and wait for them to leave. I couldn’t hear their voices anymore so I didn’t know what they were saying. I hoped they thought I’d gone down the fire escape from my room and through the garden. That would make sense, especially as my bloody footprints stopped there, although the guard on that side of the house would swear I never got past him.

  Sinking into the only shady area of the crevice, I felt around for the coolest place to sit and, as I did so, I touched a flat portion of roof, only a hand width high and wide. I pulled back to study it and found that it appeared to be a small door with a lever.

  The mechanism clicked and the opening released. I ran my hand around the rubber edging that would seal tightly against all kinds of weather.

  There was something inside, and I reached in to pull it out: a box marked with a big red cross. I racked my memories for a moment, wondering if I’d seen it somewhere before, coming up with nothing. All I knew for sure was that somebody had been coming up there from time to time. They’d carved out the handholds on the deck roof to make it easier to climb up and they’d left the box there.

  As I levered open the lid, the items that fell into my hands were as strange as the red cross on the lid.

  Thin rolls of soft white material, small strips of perforated plastic, needles labeled as hygienically sealed, spools of thread also sealed in plastic. Then there were things I did recognize: safety pins, tweezers, and syringes. Last of all: two vials of black liquid that had to be what Reid had called nectar.

  There were rough drawings made in gold marker on the outside of each, and I frowned at them, realizing that they were pictures of scorpions. Gold like the one I’d seen when Reid gave me nectar.

  I rocked back on my heels with the objects clutched to me.

  It was some kind of medical kit.

  There was only one person that it could belong to. Only one person who could come up there regularly—who would have something to hide—something that needed needles and, of course, bandages, that’s what the rolls of material were.

  This stuff belonged to Josh.

  He knew.

  Josh knew he could die.

  Chapter Nine

  I remembered Josh’s face that night at the Terminal, the way he’d looked at Michael—intense, on edge, as though he was fighting for his life, as though it meant so much more to him to win. Michael hadn’t cared; he’d known he couldn’t die. But Josh knew. He knew his life was at stake.

  The day he died, he’d pointed to his temple and told me: The only war we fight is the one in here. He’d told me he’d rather kill than watch me be killed.

  Sobs rose up in me as I clutched the bandages to my chest.

  Josh knew that I could die, too.

  That’s why he’d snatched me away at Implosion. That’s why he wanted to take me somewhere safe. He’d said he was a Basher because he had to be, and maybe being a Basher was the only way he could figure out to interrupt Implosion and stop my death.

  He’d saved me.

  But how had Josh survived his own Implosion? Michael had told me that Josh healed almost as fast as he did, which was impossible, unless … I stared at the little vials of black nectar in the medical kit. When Reid injected it into me at the recovery center, the cut on my forehead had healed immediately. He’d called it a dose of immortality. If Josh had carried nectar with him, ingested it somehow, he could have survived the Implosion wound. It was the only way he could have healed so fast.

  I ran my thumb over one of the scorpions, wondering if Josh had seen the same crazy things I had when he took nectar.

  There was a sudden concentration of sound at the corner of the house. Footsteps battered the ground and I pictured the soldiers gathering at the side of the garden. I wanted to scoot to the edge of the roof and see for sure, hoping they were going away. Instead, I lay still, trying to quiet my own breathing so I could hear their voices and listen for the approaching hum of drones.

  “Why would she run? Doesn’t she know she’s in danger?”

  “She’s hurt now, too.” That was the officer who’d questioned Reid. “Well, at least we know the Bashers haven’t got her. That blood trail was fresh.”

  I sucked in a breath at the mention of the Bashers. I was the weakest of the weak and unlike the slow healers, I’d be easily erased. I clutched the vials of nectar harder, pressing the scorpions to my chest. How careful Josh must have been to fool the Bashers. I shuddered at the risks he must have taken. But he’d had an advantage that I didn’t have. The Bashers already knew the truth about me.

  The men at the side of the house sounded like normal Hazards. Like they really had been sent to take me somewhere safe and they had no idea why I’d run away from them. If only Reid wasn’t with them …

  I shimmied toward their voices, ready to call out. Maybe they could help me. Maybe I could tell them about Reid. I paused because if Reid was Black Ops, then I couldn’t predict what kind of control he had over them. He’d said he was in charge and the other officer had obeyed him.

  I had no choice. I couldn’t trust them. I couldn’t trust anyone.

  I lay still as Reid’s voice cut through the conversation, pausing directly below me in the side garden. “Get me a list of all the places she frequents and get the surveillance drones out there. We need to find her before the Bashers do.”

  Their voices dimmed, vehicles roared to life and sped away, but I still couldn’t move, clutching the medical kit to my chest, shaking from the pain in my back. Too scared that someone would see me climbing down, I waited until nightfall.

  Finally, the sun descended and shadows and pockets of night grew. I opened my eyes, my body stiff and unbending, a headache pounding from the back of my head forward into both of my temples. I rolled onto my side, expanding my lungs with air for long moments, knowing I had to get inside, find food, and rest, even though the thought of falling asleep, being vulnerable, made me shudder. My home wasn’t safe anymore.

  I tied th
e medical kit inside my shirt and made it down the pipe, using the hand-holds that I now knew belonged to Josh, and dropped to the balcony. I’d locked myself out, so there was no use trying to get in through the glass door. I took a moment to rest and then made my way over the railing, holding on with my hands and working my legs around the top of the steel post until I was sure I had a good grip. Shimmying down it was somehow harder than climbing up. My legs kept tugging, my clothes jamming, my arms shook, and I dropped the last few feet and crawled along, grateful for the simple feel of ground beneath my feet.

  The back door hung on its hinges, standing in a bed of glass. I supposed that at least anybody trying to get in that way would make a lot of noise. When I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I set the medical box on the table and grabbed the tweezers out of it, ripping off my sneakers and dropping to the floor, twisting my feet toward me.

  With the blinds open, there was enough light to see without turning on a lamp. It took forever to tug each splinter and shard out. A couple from my arms caused me trouble and I finally plucked a stubborn one from my hand. I eyed the needle and thread but couldn’t bring myself to use it. I couldn’t reach the wound in my back anyway.

  I considered the vials of nectar. If I used them, I could heal straight away, but when they’d given it to me at the recovery center, I’d burned so hot, I’d started a fire. That would be the worst way to draw attention to myself. I put them away and left the kit on the kitchen table.

  Climbing the stairs was easier than before, and I headed to the bathroom and splashed my face with cold water, hoping it would bring some sense back to my world. A dark patch of blood spread across my right shoulder when I looked in the mirror, and I tried to shake off my dread as I dressed in clean clothes.

  Despite the risk, staying in the house for the night seemed like the best option. If I ran for it, I’d be out on the streets and who knew where Reid would look for me, not to mention all the usual CCTV drones. If the Bashers were looking for me too, then chances were high that they’d hear my family was gone, that the Hazards had found my home empty, and they wouldn’t look for me at home. But I couldn’t stay there any longer than one night. I’d have to take off tomorrow.

  In the meantime, I had to make the house as safe as I could, but I didn’t know how I was supposed to protect myself when it was empty. It wasn’t as if there were any heavy cupboards to board up windows. Then I remembered Dad’s outdoor shed. It might have some tools I could use.

  I detoured to my bedroom, pulled open my dance bag, and filled it with anything I thought would be useful: jeans and t-shirts, nail scissors, tweezers, pens and pencils, sturdy shoes, a pair of costume glasses—which led me to my costume bag where I found two wigs and performance make-up I’d used in dance performances. If I had to disguise myself, at least I had somewhere to start.

  Then I raced downstairs where the gloom hit me. I remembered it all over again, the door rattling behind me, the glassy rain on my head. My back still ached, the cut stung, and so did my feet. I shoved on the laundry door, working it open just enough to slide through.

  Satisfied that I was alone in the yard, I jogged over to the shed to find the latch ajar. Which probably meant Dad had taken his things with him, after all. I levered the door open, wincing when it creaked, finding it hard to see anything more than vague shapes. I knew I’d regret it if I turned on the fluorescent light, but I wasn’t sure what else to do. There could be any number of life-saving items in there—or none at all.

  I stumbled inside, shuffling my feet so I didn’t trip on anything. A few steps inside, it was pitch black, and I prepared to shut myself in the dark and flick on the light.

  There was a flash of light moments after the crunch of soft footfalls. I froze in my tracks. Torchlight pooled at the door to the shed, a circular glow like an artificial moon on the grass. “Ava?”

  I grabbed the nearest object—a coiled up hose—and stepped out into the light, surprised when the torch clicked off, leaving us in darkness.

  “Stay back,” I warned, thinking that a hose wouldn’t do much, but it was heavy and I could throw it, and at least it was something.

  “Ava? It’s me. Michael.”

  Oh no. Not him. He was the last person I expected. “Stay away from me.”

  “I’m not a wicked witch.” The smile in his voice made my face burn as my eyes adjusted to the dark. A stupid hose wasn’t going to protect me from Michael Bradley, the guy who took a knife and cut my life into pieces.

  “I don’t melt,” he continued. The corners of his mouth tugged up, his shoulders relaxed, and I saw a glimmer of the guy he was at school. “Even around you.”

  My hand went slack around the garden hose. It thudded against the side of the shed when I threw it away.

  Michael’s grin was short-lived, replaced by a narrowing of his eyes. “There’s glass all over the back porch. Was it Bashers or Hazards?”

  When I didn’t answer, he stuffed the torch behind his back. “I’m amazed you escaped them.” He held up his hands as though it would make me feel better. “I’m not here to hurt you. Seriously, Ava. I’m not.”

  “Right.” He was the one who stabbed Josh to death. The one who drove me to the recovery center where Reid tortured me. His godfather was some kind of high-ranking officer. Of course he was there to hurt me. It was probably his job to lure me somewhere so they could capture me.

  “Look. Can we go inside? It’s not safe out here.”

  “Like I’m letting you in the house with me.”

  I stepped toward him, and he took a step back, still with his hands placating in the air. “I’m not one of them. I’m really not.”

  “There’s no way you can convince me of that. Your godfather—Cheyne—the one who was supposed to be on my side. He’s part of this.” I gestured at the shattered glass adorning the back porch. “So are you.”

  “Really? Maybe we have more in common than you think.”

  “You can’t die. I can.” I spat out the words and advanced on him with my fists clenched. “We are so far apart from each other it’s not funny.”

  Again, he took a step back, and I wondered if he was as afraid of me as Ms. White had been. No matter what they said on the news, I knew I couldn’t hurt him—even though I wanted to, so badly. I wanted to take away from him what he’d taken away from me. My brother. My parents. My safety. My whole world.

  I sought the coiled shadow of the hose again and realized that I could use it, that it could buy me time. I lunged for it, and he must not have anticipated me at all because he just stood there, preparing to speak, as if anything he could say would convince me to listen.

  The hose gripped in one hand, I landed a punch on his startled face with my other. It was a wimpy hit, but he stumbled backward, surprise etched on his features. As soon as he was on the back foot, I shoved him, as hard as I could, so he lost his balance.

  Before he recovered, I snapped the hose around his neck, jerked on it to force his head down, and catapulted onto his back. I yanked the ends in opposite directions, crushing the resistance of his neck, straining my forearms. He fought me, leveraging his elbow to jab me lightly in the chin, so lightly I wondered why he didn’t clobber me like I knew he could.

  It wouldn’t kill him. But if I could get the hose tight enough to crush his neck, render him unconscious, he’d take a few minutes to recover: a few minutes for me to get back to the house and escape.

  My chest heaved. Sobs wracked through me. My arms burned and my heart choked.

  I gripped harder, arm muscles boiling, kneeing him in the back to keep him down, trying not to think about what I was doing. Especially when my own timid voice in the back of my mind told me: this is wrong.

  He wasn’t struggling that hard. I was sure he had more strength than this. He could have turned the tables on me, wrenched himself out of my grip, thrown me off him, and then charged at me.

  All he did was try to speak. One word, over and
over. His voice gasped for air, trying to be heard and it finally edged into my consciousness.

  “Out … cast.”

  He strained to say it again, and again. My eyes widened. That’s what I was—an outcast. But why would he say that to me—insult me—unless he meant … just like him.

  A cry tore out of me and my hands shook, the hose slippery with my sweat and tears. I stumbled away from him, catching myself before I tripped and fell, hovering off to the side as if I was the wounded one, staring back at him with my heart in tatters.

  He hunched on the ground, a crumpled mound, one arm hidden under him, the other trying to hold himself up. His torso shook so hard his arm gave out and he dropped his forehead to the ground, coughing into the dirt and grass.

  “Outcast.” He heaved out the word and then there was silence, broken only by his rasping breath in the frozen air.

  For the longest time, he huddled on the ground, and for an eternity I stared at him, hearing that word inside my head and thinking about how it applied to me so completely. I wasn’t part of the world anymore. I was outside it all. I tilted my head back and even the stars seemed that much further away, as though they couldn’t stand to be near me.

  That’s when it hit me how quiet it was, how dark. None of the neighboring houses had lights on. There hadn’t been any headlights all evening, cars shining their way down the street into garages. No people walking dogs. No familiar clatter as neighbors took out the trash. No doors opening and closing or kids playing in backyards.

  If I walked down the street right then and peered inside the houses, I knew they would be empty. Relocated. Evacuated. Away from the worst threat of all: me.

  I could only imagine what they’d been told. Biological hazard. Contagion. Risk of final death. For your safety …

  I wondered if Michael was the last person I would ever look at.

  It took an age for him to shuffle up to his knees, his face down, his hands planted on the tops of his thighs as leverage. I dreaded what I would see in his face when he looked up.