by David Estes
And Destiny isn’t more than an arm’s length away from him, her body lying still. So still. Every bit as motionless as an inanimate object, like the gun.
Too slow. Too late. Too alone.
The forest seems to breathe around him, as if taunting him with its teeming life. Leaves rustle. Birds chirp. Insects buzz. And Destiny lies still.
Harrison holds his breath and closes his eyes. It’s not right that he should breathe when she cannot. He won’t taunt her body the way the forest does.
There’s a faint rustle nearby—an animal perhaps, curiously investigating the ruckus. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe.
Rustle, rustle. It’s coming closer.
“Why?” her voice asks, and his eyes flash open, his breath pouring from his mouth in a gasp.
Destiny crouches over him, her face a mask of confusion, her curls brushing his cheeks like twisted vines.
“You’re alive,” he says.
“Because of you,” she says, awe in her voice. She doesn’t seem angry. Not yet anyway. “Three times, because of you. And all I want to know is: why?”
“Because I see you,” Harrison says. “And I want to see you more.” The words sound so lame once they’re out of his brain, and he wants to take them back.
Destiny’s deep brown eyes seem to brighten though. “But I’m no one. I’m nothing.”
“No,” Harrison says. “You’re wrong. You’re someone and something. This life isn’t done with you yet. I think we proved that three times over.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” Harrison admits. “But that’s all the more reason to keep going until we do. We can figure things out together.”
“It’s too hard,” Destiny says. “I can still hear their screams. Can still see their blood. Can still taste their burnt skin on my lips. I’m afraid to close my eyes to sleep. Afraid to blink because of the images that are seared in my mind.”
“I won’t pretend to understand what you’re going through,” Harrison says. “But I do understand how it feels to hate being in your own skin.”
“That’s exactly how I feel,” Destiny says.
Harrison sits up, turning off his hoverboard so it drops from his shoes. “I’m not like you,” Harrison says. “I grew up with everything. Food on the table. A topnotch education. Sports on the weekends. Friends. A mother who loved me. And a father I never saw, who had no interest in me. It was the last part that made me think something was wrong with me. Something serious.”
Destiny grabs his arm, her hand warm against his skin. A little sweaty, probably from gripping the gun so tightly. “But that makes no sense. Your own self-worth isn’t defined by what other people do.”
Harrison nods. “My point exactly, and I know that now. My father was so focused on protecting Benson that he forgot about everyone else, including me. He allowed people to be killed under his watch. Children. Babies. He tried to slow Pop Con down, but he never tried to stop it.”
“I don’t understand,” Destiny says.
Harrison sighs. “All I’m saying is that the world has turned its back on you, not the other way around. You needed a place to be safe. You deserved a place like Refuge. Hell, the world owed it to you. That’s not your fault—that’s the world’s fault. My father’s fault. You aren’t to blame. No one except the government is to blame.”
She shakes her head. “That might make sense on paper, but it’s not true when people have died because of what you did.”
“So you should die?” Harrison says. It’s his turn to grab her, using both hands to steer her shoulders in direct alignment with his. His heart skips a beat as she stares at him.
“Do you want me to answer that?” she says.
“No,” he says, “because I’m going to answer it for you. N. O. You killing yourself won’t change anything. It will just solidify Pop Con’s victory.”
“But I—I want to—” Her lip quivers and her upper teeth quickly slip out to bite it. “I. Want. To. Die.” She bursts into tears and falls against him, her strong arms roped around his neck.
“Shh,” Harrison whispers into her hair, which tickles his nose and face. “Maybe I can change your mind. If you could help save my brother, would you do it?”
Her ragged breath hitches and her body stops shaking. “How?” she asks.
“Does it matter?” Harrison says. “There’s still hope for us, even if it doesn’t feel like it. We’re both looking for redemption, and I think I know how we can get it.”
“Yes. I would help,” she says.
“We’re going to kill my brother’s Death Match.”
Chapter Twenty
The gunshot scared everyone, but not Benson. It registered somewhere deep in his brain and helped snap him out of his funk, but it most definitely didn’t scare him.
There’s very little left to be scared of. Sure, he’s got more people he loves that could be taken away from him. His mother, his friends, Harrison, Geoffrey. But he knows it’s inevitable anyway. They’re all traitors to the government which means they’ll all be found and killed eventually. There’s no point in being scared of the inevitable.
People are running and safeties are being clicked off and tents are being torn down, but Benson just sits there, waiting for fate to come and destroy them all.
Move, you fool! a voice says inside his head. An awful, beautiful voice, speaking from the grave, her tongue as sharp as ever. Luce.
“Can’t,” Benson says, licking his lips, which are already getting chapped from the cold.
I’m dead but you’re not. You think I’d want you to wait around to die? To let those you love die? Do you REALLY think that’s what I would want?
A thick knot of pain accumulates in his gut. Because he hasn’t considered for one bot-lickin’ second what Luce would want. Well, that’s not entirely true. She told him she wanted him to take care of Geoffrey, which he’s planning to do. But what if she had a hundred other wishes that she didn’t have time to speak before her heart stopped beating? Should that make them any less important?
He’s going crazy. Dead people don’t speak in your head. They don’t speak at all. It’s his mind playing tricks on him, a side-effect of the smothering sadness that threatens to suffocate him. Is this how his mom felt when she thought he was dead? Is this why Janice lost her mind and ended up in the asylum? Is insanity passed down genetically? He can almost picture the gene for crazy hiding somewhere in his brain, waiting, waiting, waiting…for something to set it off, to give it life. A trigger. A psychotic break event. Like the death of someone you love. In less than a week, Benson has lost two people he loves, more than enough to drive any sane person crazy.
Movement draws his attention as Harrison and Destiny are dragged into camp by two strong guards, a guy and a girl. Harrison looks angry and self-satisfied, all at the same time, while Destiny looks different than he’s ever seen her. Vacant, empty, her eyes roaming the camp but seeming to look right through it—the exact opposite of the strong, self-assured girl he met back in Refuge.
“What happened?” Jarrod says.
“Her gun accidentally went off,” Harrison says.
“I’m sorry,” Destiny says. She sounds genuine enough, but Benson senses something off about her apology. Like she’s really apologizing for something else. To someone else.
Jarrod grimaces, looks at the woodsy canopy overhead, as if seeking patience from some divine force of nature. “Every Hawk within a hundred miles will have registered the sound and are probably already triangulating our position. We have to move.”
“I’m sorry,” Destiny says again, but all she gets are glares and shaking heads. Benson feels sorry for her. The last thing she needs is more attention drawn to her.
Right then, looking at the way Harrison’s and Destiny’s hands brush against each other, Benson makes a decision. He’ll honor Luce’s life by protecting the rest of his loved ones. Pop Con will have to pry his friends and fami
ly from his dead fingers before they’ll kill them too.
“Do you approve?” he whispers to Luce, his vision blurring.
Just then the clouds split open for a moment, letting a single ray of sunshine through, painting his cheeks with warmth.
Her answer is clear:
Yes.
~~~
When they hurriedly break camp, Benson finds himself surrounded by his friends. Check and Rod and Gonzo and Geoffrey. They seem to form a barrier around him, as if protecting him from the outside world.
He grabs Geoffrey around the shoulders and pulls him next to him.
They walk for hours, the group of friends following the ragtag troop of Lifers, led by Jarrod. They hang back from the rest, their unspoken words a cacophony amidst the silence. At some point Geoffrey starts weeping, silent tears tracing wet tracks down his cheeks. His shoulders and chest shake accordingly.
It’s contagious, and Benson notices his other friends crying, too.
But he doesn’t. His eyes are dry and burning, his shoulders stalwart and firm, like a castle’s stone ramparts. He doesn’t know why. He feels sad, depressed, full of emotion. Like he should cry. Like he wants to cry. Maybe he’s all cried out. Or maybe one of them needs to be strong while the others are weak. Maybe it’s his turn to be strong.
He ropes an arm around Geoffrey’s shoulders and says, “Luce was clever and brave.”
Geoffrey looks at him, surprised, his blurry eyes wide with curiosity. He licks his salty lips.
“When the cyborg was chasing us, she saved us. She found the hatch in the train. She risked her life by swinging down to kick him in the face. It was her idea to duck the moment the roof angled down. She saved us.”
Geoffrey nods in understanding.
The others seem to get what Benson is doing. Check says, “Luce was funny as hell.” His tears seem to vanish as a smile creases his face. “Most of the time I asked her out on dates just so I could get a good laugh from the excuses she’d come up with. Once she told me she couldn’t go out because she had to learn African click dialect.” Benson feels a rush of heat in his chest at the memory. That was only a year ago, but it already feels like another lifetime.
“I remember that,” Gonzo says, chuckling. “Anything you said to her, she just started madly clicking her tongue. Eventually you left without her, pretending to be angry.”
“I was angry,” Check says, but Benson can tell his friend is lying.
Rod says, “Luce had a good heart.” He pauses, as if trying to get his emotions under control. Benson understands the feeling—he’s somewhere between laughing and crying, his throat tight and his vision blurry. “Even when she was Picking pockets she only took what she needed for us to survive. Nothing more. Do you remember when she grabbed an entire case of food pills from that delivery truck?”
Check chuckles. “I was SO angry when she anonymously donated half of the bottles to that orphanage. We could’ve eaten for months off of those pills, but she said there were other kids that needed them more.” He turns to Benson. “That’s why she wanted you. You’re the only one of us who had a heart to match hers.” Benson’s eyes are overflowing, and this time he lets them. He just shakes his head and looks away from his friend.
“Wait, I got one,” Gonzo says. “Luce was a good friend. Before we met you guys”—he motions to Benson and Check—“she took care of Rod and me when we were really sick.”
“The Hundred Year Flu?” Check says.
“Yeah,” Gonzo says. “We had it bad and couldn’t go to the hospital, not without risking being identified as illegals. It was highly contagious. She should’ve stayed away from us, but she didn’t. Not for one second. My fever was so high I could barely understand what was happening. But I remember the cold touch of the spoon on my tongue and the warmth of the broth sliding down my throat. Luce fed us by hand. She kept us alive.”
“What happened?” Benson asks, the words scratching through his dry throat. He’s surprised he’s never heard this story.
“We got better,” Rod says, picking up the story. “We were at the brink of death but we survived. And then Luce got sick. She had it even worse than us. We got her to the hospital just in time, but had no money to pay. We pretended that we forgot our LifeCards and left her there. We Picked for twelve hours straight until we came up with enough money to pay for her care.”
“She survived,” Benson whispers. “She was always a survivor.” Until yesterday, he thinks. Until Pop Con killed her.
He can already feel himself slipping back into a well of despair, powerless to stop it. But then Geoffrey finally speaks. “Luce loved me,” he says. “All of you, too. She told me that all the time. Said how lucky she was to have me, and that we found all of you. She was grateful for what she had, and never talked about what she didn’t. Even though I hated when she was overprotective of me sometimes, she was the best sister I could’ve possible been given. I—” His voice cracks as a fresh torrent of saltwater streams from his eyes. “I loved her so much.”
They cry together, a mixture of tears and smiles and memories of a girl who meant the world to them.
When the tears have run out and the hole in Benson’s chest is at least partially filled, he notices the forest thinning. It’s almost like a knotted ball of string slowly untangling, coming undone. Walking is easier and faster and then they’re out, staring across a wide flat plain. Forlorn houses and stunted buildings form an unimpressive small-town skyline.
And for the first time since Luce’s death, Benson’s legs feel lighter, as if maybe he can walk on his own again.
He knows it won’t be the last time her memory haunts him, but he also knows he’ll get through it. With the help of his friends, he’ll get through it and he’ll help them get through it.
Whatever comes next, they’re in it together.
Chapter Twenty-One
Focusing on putting one foot in front of the other is the only thing that keeps Destiny from crying. And she hates crying. Loathes it. Even when she was little she wasn’t a crier. A fall from a bike and a skinned knee? Suck it up and get back on. No friends, no family? Get over it and survive. No one’s going to do it for you.
The only time she remembers crying was after her parents were killed by the Hunters. For a moment she thought it was raining, raising her hand to wipe the unexpected moisture off her face. When she realized what they really were—tears—the anger hit her so hard her eyes dried in an instant. She didn’t want to validate Pop Con’s reign of terror by crying over what they did. So she lifted her chin, firmed up her quivering bottom lip, and smiled so big she thought her face might split open. She smiled for her parents, and she vowed to survive for them.
The memory feels like a punch to the stomach, knocking the wind from her chest and turning her legs to rubber. She stumbles, crying out, watching helplessly as the ground seems to rise up to meet—
A strong arm grabs her firmly, catching her in mid-fall, and pulls her erect. She meets Harrison’s eyes with her own for a moment, but then looks away. His hands are still clenched around her arm, as if he’s afraid she’ll be knocked over by an errant gust of wind the second he lets go. His fingers seem to burn tracks along her skin.
She pulls away, muttering a completely understated “Thanks,” and then continuing her one-foot-in-front-of-the-other march. Even as she feels Harrison hovering behind her protectively, she wills strength back into her legs. It works and she immediately feels sturdier, more solid, as if the ghost that had replaced her has gone to haunt someone else.
She can do this.
Right?
She can live, despite all those—all those…
Dead, sightless eyes stare at her. Blood spills. Fire rages. Smoke jams itself into her throat and she can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe
CAN BREATHE.
Squeezing her hands into fists, she sucks in a ragged breath, fighting off the memories. Another breath. And another. It’s like her body has been erased
of all instincts, like she has to think about every breath, has to remind her own heart to beat in her chest. Blinking takes effort, as if she has to force her lids up and down, up and down, else her eyes remain open for eternity, until they dry up and shrivel into prunes.
The thing that’s killing her the most, however, is that she’s no stranger to suicide. As a Slip, most of her human contact has been with people who are forlorn, distraught, hopeless. Many of them spoke of suicide so openly it felt like having a conversation about the weather. Others whispered of death only in the safety of the dark night. And on one awful eve, she witnessed a man hanging himself, the light in his eyes already gone before she could lift the weight—his own weight—that was pulling the rope tight against his neck.
She always thought suicide was for the weak.
But it’s not, she now realizes. Suicide can happen to anyone, because even the strongest people can feel weak for a moment, bent but not broken, chipped but not shattered.
One foot in front of the other.
One foot. Then the other. Repeat. Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. Blink. Blink. Blink.
And then something miraculous happens. She stops thinking about walking, about breathing, about blinking, about her heart beating in her chest. But they don’t stop. Her body continues to work on its own, as if she didn’t try to blow her brains out, as if she’s not already dead, as if there’s
still
hope.
Because there is. There ALWAYS is. This is what she realizes as she walks toward the unknown, even if the thought is fleeting and one she knows she’ll have to capture again and again and again, probably for the rest of her life.
~~~
“Mom?” Harrison says, placing a gentle hand on Janice’s shoulder.
She turns and her smile fills him with warmth, from head to toe. Although she still talks to herself and doesn’t make much sense a lot of the time, every day away from the asylum seems to brighten his mother’s smile.
