by Amie Kaufman
Tarver’s gripping the edge of the dumpster lid, Jubilee creeping closer so she can train her weapon on whoever’s inside as he gets ready to haul it open. Just as Tarver’s muscles start to tense, Sofia’s sharp whisper cuts through the tense silence.
“Wait!”
Jubilee’s gun twitches our direction, eyes scanning behind us even before she registers that Sofia’s speaking. We’re invisible in here, no other danger evident, and her gun twitches back. Her brow’s crowding in, and I can tell she’s about to signal Tarver to continue.
But Sofia doesn’t speak for no reason—that much about her is real, and no lie or misdirection can change it. “What is it?” I ask softly, forestalling Jubilee.
Sofia’s eyes flick from me to the dumpster. “The husks,” she breathes, voice barely audible. “They don’t hide. They’re on a mission—you said it yourself,” she adds, nodding at Jubilee. “They’re running a search pattern. Why would one corner itself in here?”
Tarver lets go of the edge of the dumpster, though he doesn’t lower his gun, eyes darting between me and Sofia.
But before anyone can respond, the dumpster lid flies open, knocking Tarver back and making a sound like thunder crashing up and down the alley. A figure tries to vault out of it, but he’s clearly too cramped, too panicked, for acrobatics. He stumbles forward against the far wall, tripping and then dropping to the streets. Before any of us can speak, he’s got his hands up, as though protecting his face from us.
“Please!” he gasps, voice ringing. “Don’t hurt me—please don’t hurt me.”
“Shhh!” Jubilee’s eyeing the mouth of the alleyway, her gun trained on this new arrival.
But he doesn’t respond to that warning, still babbling pleas. He’s in his fifties or sixties and out of shape, clad in the ruins of a suit. He’s filthy, the odor of garbage and fear ripening the air, but as his eyes flash, terrified, between the five of us, I can see it: his eyes are hazel. And though they’re dilated with fear, they’re not empty.
“You have to calm down!” Tarver’s voice is low and urgent, and though it cuts across the man’s babbling, it seems to have no effect.
An image of that husk in the next block turning our way flashes up in my memory, and I’m moving before I have time to think—dropping into a crouch, I reach out and press my hand against the guy’s mouth, forcing a moment of silence. He groans, eyes rolling from the two soldiers, to me, and back again.
Sofia’s moving to crouch beside me, and glances up to follow the man’s gaze. “Guys—” She lifts a hand, then turns it palm-down to gesture as she murmurs, “Lower the guns.”
“We’re not going to hurt you,” I whisper. “But you’ve got to be quiet. If I take my hand away, will you promise not to make noise?”
He nods, eyes rolling back toward me again.
I ease my hand away and the man gulps air.
“Who are you? What’re you doing here?” Sofia’s voice is soft, despite her line of questioning.
“We were—I’m Chuck. My wife and I were…There were evacuation sirens. They said this part of the city wasn’t safe, might collapse. We were…we were…” He trails off, staring wildly into the middle distance.
Sofia reaches out, her hand coming to rest gently on his shoulder. “It’s okay. Just take a deep breath.” The genetag tattoo she worked so hard to conceal is exposed now, and stands out stark against her inner arm as she gives the man’s shoulder a squeeze. My stomach clenches as I realize this probably isn’t the first time she’s talked someone through a violent trauma, growing up on Avon in the middle of a war.
He shivers. “She just stopped. Like something flipped a switch. Stopped, then turned around and started walking back that way.” He lifts his chin, pointing back in the direction of the Daedalus. “When I tried to stop her, to ask what she was doing, it was like she didn’t even know me—she looked at me and her eyes were…” He closes his own eyes, as though he might be able to shut out the memory of his wife’s empty gaze. “She grabbed me and started dragging me with her, but I pulled free and…”
“And hid here,” Sofia finishes for him. She glances at me, eyes meeting mine—and in that moment, I know exactly what she’s thinking. He’s not fit enough to keep up with us, and with everything hinging on our success, we can’t afford to slow down. But he could turn into one of those husks if he steps outside the protective field of my jury-rigged whisper shields, and if Lilac can’t sense us through our scrambling fields, she’ll certainly be able to access what he knows about us.
My eyes rake the alley, and Chuck himself, as I try to figure out how he’s managed to hold off the whisper’s influence for so long—then my eyes fall on the dumpster. Its thick metal walls might serve to protect him the way our electromagnetic devices do.
“You have to get back inside.” I’m reaching for the guy’s arm even as the others turn to look at me. “It’s the safest place to hide, we can give you supplies. You have to stay in there or you’ll end up like your wife.”
Chuck’s trying to shake my hand off, not understanding what I’m telling him in his relief at finding other survivors. I open my mouth to explain further, but before I can speak, movement beyond catches my eye.
There’s a hand coming over the edge of the wall in the shadows at the end of the alley. The fingertips grope, creeping along the cement until they find purchase in a crack; it’s not until they curl and tighten that I realize one of them is bent oddly, twisted, and not moving like the others. A head and shoulders appear, becoming a figure dragging itself over the edge of the wall.
I lurch to my feet, one hand reaching out instinctively to grab for Sofia and pull her with me as I stagger back. The others see it almost instantly—Flynn reaches for Chuck, Jubilee trains her gun on the figure creeping over the wall, Tarver spits a curse and swings his weapon over toward the mouth of the alley—and we break into a run.
I’m craning my neck back to watch as the figure slides over the edge of the wall and drops into a heap on the pavement. The figure in the shadows grows arms again, and legs, and I can see its profile, head turning toward us as we burst back out into the sunlight. I collide with someone just in front of me—the others have stopped. It’s all I can do not to shout at them, Run, run, for the love of…
And then I see why they’re not running.
The street outside the alley is filled with husks.
There are dozens upon dozens of them, ranging as far as I can see. Most of them would seem perfectly normal if not for the slack faces and the empty black holes where their eyes should be—but some of them have obvious injuries, like the one at the back of the alley with the broken finger. A girl, no older than eleven or twelve, stands only a few feet away, a shallow scrape across her arm standing crimson against her pale yellow sundress; a man some distance back, tall enough to see over the sea of faces, stares at us from only one black eye, the other crusted shut with blood from a head wound.
“No,” whispers Chuck, shrinking back against Flynn, who’s still gripping his arm. “No, no, no, nooo.” His whisper turns to a moan, and he rips his arm away from Flynn’s grasp.
“Wait—” Flynn’s lunging after him. “Don’t!”
But the man’s withdrawing, back down the alley, toward his dumpster, out of shield range of the altered palm pad inside Flynn’s vest. But while it might have protected him from the whisper’s psychic reach, the dumpster’s not going to do anything against the husks. Others have joined the solitary shadow at the back of the alley, and they descend on Chuck from behind. He starts to climb back into his hiding spot, but the husks grab hold of him, dozens of fingers twining into his clothes, his hair, dragging him away from the dumpster, which screeches an inch away from the wall as he clings to its edge. Then he’s gone, pulled down into their midst.
“Damn it!” Jubilee’s got her weapon aimed at them, and I can see her focus flicking with each little twitch of the gun barrel. She doesn’t know where to aim, much less where to shoot. These are
innocents. No different from Kumiko and her soldiers on Avon, broken by the invasion of their minds. One of the figures helping to pin Chuck down is tiny—a child.
The moment seems to stretch into an eternity; we should be running. We should leave Chuck to his fate, let his choice to hide play out, continue our attempts to reach Dr. Rao. But all of us can hear him screaming for someone named Alisha—his wife, no doubt. I can’t tell if he’s calling out to her because he’s thinking of her, in these last moments, or if he’s screaming her name because she’s one of his assailants.
I’m holding onto Sofia so tightly I have to be hurting her, but she says nothing, her body shaking where she’s pressed against me.
Tarver breaks first, taking one step down the alley, swearing. But before he can move any further, the screaming stops. My heart lurches in the sudden silence, broken by five sets of panicked breathing. He’s dead—they killed him. They killed him.
But then the husks withdraw, straightening, coming to their feet. And so does Chuck. For the briefest second, we all stand there, confused. Then Chuck turns his head, gaze finding us—his dark, empty-eyed gaze.
I feel Sofia take a shaking breath. “Time to go,” she whispers.
We run.
Once, long ago, we could have spoken to them, these lonely survivors on this ghost of a world. But we are so weak now, and can do little more than watch. We see them as they cannot, will not, see each other—we see his heart in the way he looks at her; we see her soul calling out for his in every touch. It would be so easy if they could only see inside each other as we can.
And yet, there is beauty in the way they find each other: slowly, in a fragile dance of sidelong glances and accidental touches. To see them come together, souls binding without knowing each other as we do, without being certain of what the other’s heart holds, is to learn something new…
Faith.
THE DRY, ACRID AIR TEARS in and out of my lungs like a saw, the chemicals lingering from the Daedalus crash singeing the inside of my nose, my throat. I concentrate on the rhythm as my feet pound after the others, trying not to gasp aloud—if we can run far enough, fast enough, quietly enough, maybe we can leave the surging tide of husks behind us. Maybe we can sink back into silence and stealth again.
My eyes water with the effort, a new kind of panic starting to rise as the others get farther and farther ahead of me and Gideon—oh God, don’t leave us behind—until I realize Gideon’s keeping pace with me on purpose. He runs faster than I do, he should be ahead of me, he should be safe inside the range of Tarver’s and Flynn’s shields. And suddenly the litany in my head turns inside out. You idiot—just GO.
But then Jubilee and Tarver are spreading out, Tarver heading for one side of the street on the next block, and Jubilee for the other. My eyes catch one of them—I’m not even sure which—lifting an arm in signal. Then Tarver’s there as we reach them, ushering us to the side to follow Jubilee and Flynn down a side street.
“This way.” His words are short, clipped, precise and efficient. “Fewer husks—narrower streets.”
I risk a glance behind me as I skid to turn the corner following the others, and my heart sinks. The husks might be slow to react, might shuffle along as they search for targets—but once given a task, they can move as quickly as any of us. There are at least a hundred of them, only a few meters back. If they catch us and rip the shields from Flynn and Tarver, or drag us beyond their reach, we’ll have no protection left against the mental net the whisper’s casting over the city. I’d rather they tear us apart where we stand, than become one of those things.
My breath rushes out in a sob, and I stumble—Gideon’s hand grabs at my arm, and together we lurch to our feet and take off, Tarver bringing up the rear behind us.
The streets spin dizzyingly around us as we sprint through the maze of rubble and sinkholes. The pavement starts to crumble beneath me at one point and I have to jump for the far side—I don’t have time to look back, but I can hear a distant crash a few seconds later as the debris from street level drops down, down into the mid-city below, to shatter. We turn one corner, then another, then another—then turn back again, hitting a dead end, losing valuable seconds. The street funnels in, narrowed by the debris on either side. Then, abruptly, ahead of us is a wall of stones and twisted metal supports, part of a nearby skyscraper that’s sunken and tumbled into the street. My feet pause only for a moment before I take off again, this time dragging Gideon behind me as we move, start climbing the mountain of rubble.
Our hands and feet scrabble against the loose detritus, and my mind seizes wildly on a memory. Keep your body close to the wall. Don’t look down. I’m right behind you. All the little things Gideon called as I scaled the sheer wall of the elevator shaft in LaRoux Industries, what feels like years ago.
What I wouldn’t give to be back in that elevator shaft.
We’re not moving fast enough—though the pile of rubble isn’t that steep, it’s impossible to tell what’s solid and what’ll give way as soon as we grab it. And the husks are closing in.
Tarver turns, throwing himself back against the rubble and bringing his gun around to train on the things now starting to climb up through the broken building toward us. “Keep moving!” he shouts, his words punctuated by the squeal of the military-grade Gleidel. A bolt rips through the fleshy part of an arm, making the husk reel back and drop. Another shot, and another—two more go down, but the first one’s already moving again, resuming the climb, barely even slowed by the wound on his arm that’s now bleeding freely.
Pain doesn’t stop them—and none of us, not me, not Gideon, not Tarver or Jubilee or Flynn—none of us would be able to shoot to kill an innocent. Because that’s what the husks are: real people, with real lives, their brains and bodies hijacked.
Jubilee joins Tarver, pausing in her climb to draw her own weapon again, gasping to catch her breath as she fires once, twice; they’re barely making a dent in the mob surging up after us. I reach for the edge of a boulder-size hunk of cement—the bigger pieces usually move less—only to feel it shift and start to shudder toward me. I shriek and lurch to the side as it goes rolling down the slope, crashing into one of the husks and sending it sprawling.
I glance over at Gideon, whose eyes meet mine—and then we’re both reaching for whatever pieces of rubble we can find, hurling them down the slope at the mob, the sounds of shattering cement mingling with the shrieking of weapons fire. Flynn scrambles sideways so his concrete missiles won’t hit us, and joins the fight.
Then Gideon’s voice cracks in a shout, and I see him go skidding down the slope. I dive after him, grabbing at one of his arms just as my eyes pick out the hand wrapped around his ankle; a hand belonging to an old woman, her face horrifyingly serene as her thin, bony fingers dig into Gideon’s skin hard enough to turn it white. I give a wordless cry, wrapping both hands around Gideon’s and bracing my feet against a steel girder, as Gideon flails out with his other leg, trying to kick her off. Tarver’s there a breath later, unhesitatingly letting his gun drop and skitter away down the slope as he uses both hands to grab for Gideon’s other arm, helping me pull him out of the husk’s grasp, scrambling just inches ahead of the mob.
My arms wrap around Gideon and his around me, and my body’s no longer listening to the frantic staccato drumline of commands from my brain—climb higher—keep moving—run—fight—stay alive—and for a heartbeat neither of us moves, and I don’t have to look at him to know he feels it too, that this is it, and none of it should’ve mattered; the lies, the deception, the fake names and the false pretenses, none of it was real or true, and now we’re never going to have the chance to know each other as we really are.
A pulse of pressure explodes across us, erupting against my ears, leaving my head ringing with…silence. All I can hear is my own breath, tearing and gasping for air—my breath and Gideon’s, the force of it stirring my hair. And Tarver, a few feet away. And…I open my eyes to see Flynn with his arm around Jubil
ee, supporting her—she’s hurt somehow, I can’t tell how—and holding her gun in a shaking hand. He’s pulling the trigger and nothing’s happening, the gun silent and dark now, as dead and useless as an inert hunk of debris.
Everyone is still, like someone’s pressed “pause” on the playback of this moment, and my mind tries frantically to figure out what’s happened.
I turn just in time to see the husks—all of them, every single one in the mob of hundreds surging after us—drop in unison, falling like marionettes whose strings have been cut. Only after they’ve hit the ground is it possible to see the one figure still standing, only a few meters beyond the bottom of the rubble. It’s a woman, older than us but not by much, clad in a dirty, battered suit of some kind. One hand hangs useless and still at her side, the other clasped, trembling, around an object that, from this distance, looks like some kind of grenade. Something about her dark skin and hair feels familiar, though I know I’ve never seen her before. Something, something at the back of my mind…
“Hey, you,” she murmurs, voice thin and wobbly. I follow her gaze to see Tarver there, stunned, grip gone so nerveless he actually slides a few feet downward in a trickle of debris. The woman sways, and it’s only then that I realize not all the grime on her jumpsuit is dirt—there’s dried blood there too, spread across one side of her torso. “You guys make an awful lot of noise.”
Movement behind her makes my heart give an abrupt lurch—Tarver sees the husk at the same time, and suddenly he’s descending the pile of rubble without slowing, causing a landslide of debris and dust. But he’s not going to get there in time. There’s a boy stumbling toward the woman in the jumpsuit, stumbling because one of his ankles isn’t working right—he must’ve been so far behind the rest of the group that whatever took them out missed him entirely.
