The Earth Dwellers

by David Estes

  Chapter Forty

  Adele

  “And then I snuck into the New City,” I say, ending my story. Twice I’ve had to stop because the sounds of the guards searching the area got too close for comfort. But like Jocelyn guessed, no one’s looked in her room yet. But they will eventually.

  The tears that filled her eyes when I told her about her husband pitting her sons against each other in a fight to the death finally break free, spilling down her cheeks, glistening like liquid diamonds.

  She stands and looks away from me and I wonder if I’ve said too much, if I’ve broken her spirit. Should I have lied about Killen and let Tristan tell her the truth later? I know that even if I wanted to, I couldn’t have lied to a woman who’s been through so much.

  She speaks to the window. “I’ve known for a long time that Killen had too much of Edward in him. I tried to undo the damage that my husband’s brainwashing did to him, but I—I failed.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. She still won’t look at me. “He never had Tristan’s goodness inside him. He never wanted it. It’s not your fault. Nor Killen’s. Nailin—I mean, your husband—is the only one to blame here. You did everything you could.”

  “Did I?” she says, turning suddenly and sharply to look at me. Her eyes are the clearest I’ve seen yet, as crystal blue as Tristan’s. I know she’s not really asking me—she’s asking herself.

  I let the question hang in the air, my gaze wandering past her to the screen on the wall, where a new image has appeared. I gasp, rising to my feet. “No, no, no, no,” I say, my heart slamming around in my chest. But no matter how many times I refute the image with my lips, it remains, as clear as the sparklingly clean glass windows of the New City buildings.

  Lin’s face fills the screen, her expression frozen in a sneer, her eyes dark and stormy.

  “You know her?” Jocelyn says, turning the volume on once more.

  I don’t answer, just listen. “This just in,” a voice says. “As the ongoing search for the dangerous soldier calling herself Tawni Sanders tightens, at least one mystery has been solved. Sixteen-year-old Malindra Elliot, niece of Avery Elliot, has been taken into custody under suspicions of aiding and abetting Tawni Sanders. According to sources close to the investigation, Lin has been uncooperative and somewhat belligerent during early questioning. Police are confident that, given time, they’ll be able to draw the information they need from Ms. Elliot.”

  The room begins to spin. This wasn’t supposed to happen, I think as I try to focus on the screen, which seems to be darting away from my gaze. I stumble and would fall if not for the hand that grabs my arm. Jocelyn guides me back onto the bed as the report continues.

  “Dr. Wayne Zhou, government psychologist, has reviewed the facts of the case and his preliminary hypothesis is that Tawni Sanders is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder as a result of her time spent in combat. Although no one knows exactly who she really is, or what unit she was stationed with, it’s clear from the way she emerged from the desert into the New City that she’s seen and experienced the terrible atrocities carried out by the natives on our people.”

  “BS,” I say.

  “It’s normal,” Jocelyn says.

  “What is?” I say, massaging my temples, the room finally slowing its rotation.

  “The propaganda. It’s what Lecter does to control things. He controls the information so he controls the people.”

  “No one actually believes this crap, do they?” I ask, meeting her eyes.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t exactly get to interact with anyone other than Borg. But so far it’s seemed to have worked for him.”

  “Why do you call him that?” I snap, unable to hide the fire in my words.

  “What?” she says, like she doesn’t understand.

  “You keep calling Lecter, Borg, like he’s someone you’re fond of. Why?”

  “He is…was…someone I was fond of.”

  I cringe, my hands balling in my lap. Look away. She’s not the strong woman I’d built up in my imagination. Falling for psycho after psycho.

  “It’s complicated,” she says.

  “Then explain it,” I say coldly.

  She sighs. “I—I’d gotten so used to being treated like a rat, like a thing, by Edw—by my husband—that when Bor—Lecter”—she says his last name slowly, like she’s not used to it—“treated me with kindness, I reached for it, like a drug, grabbed hold of it. I needed some kindness.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  She rushes on. “And at first the way he talked about his plans…about equality for all people, expanding the population, feeding the hungry and clothing the naked and sheltering the homeless…it was exciting. It was what I wanted to hear. No, what I needed to hear. The exact opposite of my husband. I fell for it, grew fond of hearing his vision, of having normal meals with him, of talking to someone who seemed interested in what I had to say…”

  “And then it all changed.” I’m trying to hear her side, but I still can’t understand how she could be so blind.

  “Yes. The first time I questioned something that didn’t make sense…let’s just say I’ll never forget his eyes. They were so dark, so full of anger, and then poof! The smile was back, the sparkling eyes, the happy-go-lucky expression. He very calmly and logically explained why I was wrong. But I knew something didn’t make sense.”

  “And the more you questioned, the more you got the other Lecter,” I say.

  She nods. “But I still can’t seem to make sense of him. How he could seem so kind and caring one minute, and so brooding and threatening the next.”

  “He’s a liar,” I say. “It’s that simple.”

  Her face twitches, like she’s been bitten or slapped. I can see the torment in her expression. This woman has gone from the devil to a demon and it’s done things to her I may never fully understand. In her current state, she can’t be reasoned with, so I just add, “But I can see how hard all of this has been.” It’s an understatement so deep I might as well be saying it from the Star Realm.

  She just nods, her face going back to normal. “What are you going to do?” she asks.

  That’s the question, isn’t it? I’m out of options. The streets are too dangerous, the chances of getting back to Avery slim to none. He’s probably being watched anyway, if he hasn’t been imprisoned along with Lin. There’s no chance of me getting to either of the entrances to the city—the one from underground or the one from the desert—so I can’t help Tristan and those on the outside.

  I have only one choice, but I can’t tell Jocelyn, can I? I’m going to kill Lecter, I think.

  “I’m going to get you out of here,” I say.

  ~~~

  I awake to darkness. Where am I?

  Mother? Elsey? I almost say their names, but my lips are too dry and chapped to speak.

  I was dreaming, something that’s left me feeling warm and alive. What was my dream about? Something about my family? I frown, trying to remember. Try to sit up.

  Crack!

  “Ahh!” I cry out as sharp pain rips through my skull. I slump back, raising one hand to rub my head and the other to feel for what hit me. Wood. Hard. Very hard.

  The truth flashes back. Killing the presidential guards. Climbing the wall. Somehow, almost miraculously finding Tristan’s mother, crawling through her window. Rolling under her bed to get some much needed sleep. No Elsey. No Mother. No Tristan.

  There’s a rustle beside me and I stiffen. “What happened?” Jocelyn’s voice says. I must’ve woken her when I cried out.

  “Hit my head,” I say. “I’m okay.”

  “It’s not morning yet,” she says.

  Though I should try, there’s no way I’ll be able to go back to sleep, not when Borg Lecter might already be back, sleeping under the same roof as me.

  I hear Jocelyn roll over, and soon the soft sounds of sleep roll past me.

  My head throbs, but I don’t mind it. The pain helps s
harpen my mind, pulls me away from sleep, from the dream…

  Why can’t I remember it?

  I feel around with my left hand until I find what I’m looking for. Cold and solid and familiar. Metal. A gun. Three men dead because of how well I wielded it.

  Before I slept I reloaded it with the last magazine. Today I’ll use every last bullet on Lecter if I get the chance.

  Will killing Lecter be enough to stop the genocide? Or has the ball started rolling so fast down the hill that no one can stop it without getting flattened too? If he dies, will someone else just step in to take his place?

  I close my eyes and try to sleep, but the last forty eight hours continue to spiral through my mind. Watching it in a continuous stream like this makes me wonder if it’s real. Only the pounding in my chest and head assures me it is.

  At some point, the room begins to lighten, the surreal glow of real sunlight pushing its way through the window and sending a bright white line around the bedframe, just below the skirt, which hangs almost to the floor.

  There’s a knock on the door and Jocelyn stirs. Then, suddenly, she scrambles up and onto the bed, dragging her blanket and pillow with her, the mattress sagging slightly toward me between the wooden slats as it takes her weight. I hear the door open.

  Light footsteps. A gentle voice. “Good morning, beautiful,” Lecter says.

  A groan that I know is faked. Jocelyn trying to keep her secret. That she never sleeps on the bed. “Tired,” she says.

  “You were kept up by the excitement?” Lecter keeps his voice low and soothing, but there’s a piercing sharpness behind it.

  “I thought we were under attack,” Jocelyn says. “The guns were so loud. I was scared. I watched the news. Why is that girl doing this?” Her question is full of innocence. It even sounds true to me, and I know it’s a lie.

  “I think she’s trying to get to me,” Lecter says. I freeze. How does he…? “I think she’s from down below.” What?

  “But the news said she was an unstable soldier. Post-traumatic—”

  “You should know by now that sometimes the people don’t need to know everything,” Lecter interrupts.

  “Then why are you telling me?”

  The mattress sinks further as Lecter sits. He’s right there. So close. Is this my one and only chance? Can I shoot him through the mattress? Or could I roll out fast enough to surprise him from behind?

  The mattress shifts, undulating like a rippling lake, and I know he’s moving closer to Jocelyn. Too close for me to risk trying to kill him. If I hit her by mistake…

  “Because you’re special…” Lecter says. The acid in my gut roils as I picture the scene above me. Is he touching her face, caressing her, his words whispered in her ear? Has her body stiffened, or is she melting into him, her movements so well-practiced they almost look real? Are they real? Can I trust her?

  My heart races as I remember the soft and familiar way she said his name—Borg—like an old friend or lover. Is she pointing at the bed, secretly making Lecter aware of my presence? Is he slipping off, about to shove a gun underneath the bed skirt?

  Quietly, quietly, my fingers tighten on my gun.

  “And because I know you have no one to tell,” Lecter adds with an arrogant laugh.

  Jocelyn laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s heard in a week. Sadly, it probably is. She hasn’t given me up—at least not yet.

  “We’ll find her,” Lecter says. “She’ll be held accountable for her crimes.” His words are as cold as stone and twice as hard. And then he’s gone, his weight leaving the bed, his footsteps across the room, the door flung open, so fast that even if I’d been ready, there’s no way I could’ve risked rolling out and shooting.

  The door closes, opens. Lecter’s voice again. “Breakfast will be up soon. I apologize that you’ll have to eat alone today. I’ll be conducting the search from here if you need anything.”

  “Thank you,” Jocelyn says, but her words are only for me because the door is already shut again.

  I let out a long breath and relax my fingers from the gun handle. So close…and yet impossibly far.

  There’s silence above me. I can’t even hear her breathing, almost like she’s dead. I follow her lead, lying still, breathing through my nose.

  Minutes pass. Is it safe? Just as I’m considering saying something, there’s another knock and the door opens. Under the cloth I see two feet and four wheels move into the room. “Breakfast is served,” a woman’s voice says.

  “Thank you.”

  The feet leave but the wheels stay.

  The door closes. Silence once more.

  “Okay,” Jocelyn says after another five minutes pass. “That should be the last danger for a while.”

  “Are you sure?” I say. If I get caught now, it will all have been for nothing.

  “No,” she says. “But they don’t usually come back to collect the cart for a few hours.”

  I don’t like the way that word—usually—echoes in my head. Words like that will get you killed.

  I roll out from under the bed, ready to dive under at the first sign that someone else is coming in. From her perch, Jocelyn watches me with interest. Her hands are clasped, but I detect a slight tremor. What did she think Lecter was going to do to her? What does he usually do to her? There’s that word again.

  “You okay?” I ask softly.

  She nods, but it’s not convincing. “We’ll share the meal,” she says, motioning to the cart. Three plates covered by silver domed lids form a triangle on a silver tray. A fork, a knife and a spoon rest beside them.

  Keeping one eye on the door handle, I step to the cart. “Let me guess: one green, one brown, one yellow.”

  “What?” Jocelyn says.

  I remove a lid. “What?” I echo.

  It’s food. Real food. Not the weird rectangular blocks of faux-food that everyone else gets. An oval of ham, pink and steaming with heat. The next lid reveals fluffy yellow-white scrambled eggs, flecked with pepper. The urge to use my hands as shovels shudders through me. Hands shaking as much as Jocelyn’s, I open the third lid. Thick bread, at least five slices, browned on one side, damp with melted butter.

  I don’t wait for an invitation. Three pieces of toast are gone in less than a minute, my mouth bulging with buttery flavor and warmth. Three quarters of the eggs are next, the spoon moving ceaselessly from the plate to my mouth until I try the ham. In three bites the meat is gone and I’m chugging half the glass of water to wash it all down.

  Finished, I stare in shock at the cart.

  Oops.

  “Uh, sorry,” I say.

  “You eat like Tristan,” Jocelyn says, finally smiling for real. Her hands have stopped trembling. “It’s fine though, I’ve had enough of the food here to last a lifetime.”

  “I thought you might turn me in,” I blurt out, wondering why I’m saying it even as the words spill from my mouth.

  Jocelyn stares at me. “Why would I…?” Something flickers in her expression. Understanding. “Because of how I talk about Borg?”

  I nod. She sighs, looks down. Is that…embarrassment? “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” I say.

  “It’s okay,” she says. “I’m screwed up. I have been for a long time.”

  “No,” I say, but I know it’s true. No one could go through what she has and not be a little scarred by it. Okay, a lot scarred. “We’re all a little screwed up,” I say.

  “Thanks for saying that,” Jocelyn says. She scoots to the end of the bed and eats what’s left of the breakfast, taking each bite slowly.

  “See?” I say. “I ate breakfast like a crazy person. You’re eating normally.”

  She grins, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. As she swallows the last bite, however, her expression turns serious. “I know what you’re really doing here,” she says.

  Uh oh. Here it comes. The I-can’t-let-you-do-that speech. She might hate Lecter, but she also doesn’t want to see him die.

  “I�
��ll help you kill him,” she says.

  My mouth settles into a gaping “O.” “What? Why would you do that?”

  She re-covers each of the three dishes, placing the used utensils neatly inside each one. Finishes the water. Dabs the corners of her mouth with a napkin. I stare at her.

  Finally, she turns to me. “Because until he’s dead, I’ll never be whole.”

  “Okay,” I say, wondering if I’m making the biggest mistake yet.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Siena

  The Glass City’s ahead of us, but we ain’t slowing down. Not one bit. We’re charging ahead like there’s something worth charging for, like home or a hot meal or even an old friend like Perry. Not death.

  For a while the black Riders kept their horses in check, so as to not outdistance those of us on foot, but the moment the dome rose up ’fore us they took off like a brush fire, riding hard on wings of dust.

  What will we do when we get there? Can we break through the glass? Will ’em Glassies come out to meet us? Or will we just set there ogling our enemy through the dome, us watching ’em and ’em watching us?

  As we get closer’n closer, the dome gets bigger’n bigger. And inside the glass: the city rises up impossibly tall, structures so enormous they’re like mountains. Mountains built by men and women. How can we defeat an enemy who can build mountains?

  The Riders are almost to the dome when we hear the sound. A loud cry that ain’t made by man or beast. Loud and shrill and a warning from the Glassy leaders to the people.

  They know we’re coming.

  Tristan

  Half the soldiers are laughing and the other half are pretending not to. Roc may not be able to fight, but he’s helping the cause with his jokes and banter. Keeping things light. Cracking on everyone. Me and Elsey and Tawni, and even one ill-advised shot at General Rose that drew more laughs than any of them.

  “Did you hear the one about Prince Tristan and the cannibal woman?” Roc asks the group. Laughter and shaking heads.