Movers

by Meaghan McIsaac

  ‘Forget her!’ he yells back. ‘She’s dead anyway!’

  Something cold crawls its way up my back and I stare at Ollie. The wind whips through his shaggy hair, his clothes. The Movers’ wind. And now I realise what it is I’m looking at.

  A Nowbie.

  A frightened Mover-hating Nowbie.

  The wind picks up suddenly, and Ollie loses his grip, the door slamming shut. It takes all of his strength, frantically scrambling to prise it open again.

  ‘Pat,’ he screams, ‘we gotta go now.’

  But I can’t. Dad’s words are all I can hear in my head: You need to take care of her.

  Maggie. What if it was Maggie?

  I won’t leave her.

  I turn my back on him and scoot even closer to the edge.

  Ollie screams, ‘You’re crazy!’ and then I hear the slam of the door.

  I’m on my own.

  My body starts to tremble as I edge forward, beads of sweat pooling on my forehead. I’m half hanging over the side, doing my best not to look at the 1,300-foot drop below me. Gabby’s there, hugging her beam and staring down at the street that’s waiting to smash her up. Anchoring myself to the roof with a vice grip on a twisted piece of iron cemented into the wall, I reach out my hand.

  ‘Come on!’ I yell to Gabby. ‘Grab it!’

  She glances up, the I’m about to die terror that was all over her face briefly replaced by surprise.

  ‘Gabby,’ I beg her, ‘come on!’

  Those eyes of hers lock onto mine, huge and glistening with tears. For a second there is just those eyes and the feel of the wind, and then another crash of thunder breaks them away from me.

  ‘Gabby!’

  She squeezes her eyes tight, trying not to look down, and when she opens them again they are focused on my outstretched hand. She tries to reach but her arms are too short.

  I lean as far as I can while my eyes fight against what my brain is telling them and, without permission, look down. The world is in miniature from up here. Everything below looks microscopic, like mould on bread. My body freezes and my vision starts to go wavy. That’s when the ground moves.

  Another blast sends tremors rippling through the building. The cement begins to give way under my right foot and there’s nothing I can do. My body is in freefall and I cry out. My brain shuts down, and there’s only one thought – I’m so dead – but my hand still has a grip on the metal bar.

  I dangle there, scream-crying with Gabby while the rough rusty bar cuts into my palm. My vocal cords feel ready to snap while the rest of me is consumed by fear. No Gabby, no Movement, just – falling.

  My temples start buzzing, like the lightning has shot right through them, and I can feel him, my Shadow, suddenly aware of me. He’s angry, overwhelmed by the emotion flooding out of my body and suddenly I’m furious too.

  Stop screaming! Pull yourself up!

  The anger surges through my muscles like fire. I hold tight to the bar and hoist myself up, my fingernails clawing into metal. I get my elbows up onto the broken concrete, dragging the rest of myself back onto solid rooftop. I lie there, my cheek resting against the hard ground, trying to keep my pounding heart from exploding.

  That’s when I hear Gabby. She’s screaming my name.

  Another blast sounds above us. We’re running out of time. Another tremor could knock Gabby from her perch and anyway, she can’t hang on for ever. I’m back at the edge, trying to find something to anchor myself while I reach for her.

  To my left, the roof-yard fence dangles over the side but some of it’s still cemented to the roof. I look out to Gabby. There are broken beams, tattered wires and chunks of concrete branching to where she’s hanging. I grab the dangling part and pull it towards me. It’s still attached to the cemented part of the fence, but there’s enough give that I can make it to her. I step out onto the strongest-looking beam, my fingers cramping up from the grip I have on the fence.

  After three carefully placed steps, I’m almost beside Gabby and I reach down to her.

  ‘Take it!’ I tell her.

  I can see how much she wants to, but it’s clear from the tears in her eyes she’s too afraid to let go of her grip on the beam – her arms are the only thing keeping her from falling.

  ‘Gabby!’ I scream. ‘Do it!’

  I don’t know if my voice gave her the courage or scared her more than the threat of falling, but she reaches for my arm. My hand clamps down on her forearm and her fingers dig into my skin.

  ‘Pull!’ I shout.

  Gabby pulls on my arm and her weight is more than my muscles can handle. My teeth are grinding into paste as Gabby drags herself from her armpits to her stomach onto the beam.

  ‘Now use my hand,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll steady you. You have to stand up!’

  She whimpers and makes a shaky effort. As she pushes and pulls on my arm, in my mind I see what happens if she loses her balance: she’ll pull me down with her.

  She’s on her hands and knees now, barely daring to breathe as she makes an attempt to stand.

  ‘You can do it, Gabby!’

  She stays statue still, her gaping mouth practically kissing the beam as she stares at the street below.

  Another blast, then another. The lightning shoots around us like fireworks.

  ‘Gooba!’ I scream. ‘Move your fat ass!’

  She does her best and struggles to her feet through the tears. I guide her across the splintered bones of the broken building, her hand in mine, my other on the fence.

  When we’re back on the rooftop she falls to her knees and I want to let her catch her breath, but the lightning above us is crackling and hissing so much that the roof is no safer than where we just were.

  ‘Follow me, Gabby,’ I shout over the noise.

  Her dark eyes, red from crying, look up at me and she reaches out for my hand a second time. I force her to her feet and she stumbles a bit. ‘You can do it, Gabby!’ I tell her again, and she lets me drag her across the roof, through the doors and out of the storm.

  FIVE

  When homeroom is on the fifty-second floor, you don’t find yourself taking the stairs much. In fact I’ve never taken the stairs before now. It smells like old paint and dust, and the emergency lights offer just enough to let us know it’s really friggin’ dark in here. Gabby’s breathing is loud behind me as we fly down the empty south stairwell, our footsteps echoing so that I’m painfully aware it’s just me and the Gooba.

  Floor after floor we make our way down, leaping four steps at a time, getting dizzy with each turn. The air is thick with what looks like white smoke. But it’s not smoke. It’s pieces of Romsey, flaking into nothing as the storm works to bring it down.

  Everyone left. They just left. Left me, left Gabby. They didn’t care. Ollie left. I shouldn’t be surprised. Not when I really think about it. We were never friends, not in any real sense. We were just convenient to each other. Loners together. Movers don’t have friends, I remind myself. Not really.

  I leap onto the next landing – floor 48 – and stop. Gabby’s a good three flights behind so I wait.

  ‘You all right?’ I ask when she finally catches up.

  She says nothing, just nods and makes her way past, moving as fast as she can manage.

  ‘What the breezes happened up there, Gabby?’

  She stops and looks back at me, her head tilted like she’s confused by the question.

  ‘Did you do this?’ I ask.

  Her eyes drop then, and she shakes her head no. She shakes her head so hard the elastic that’s clinging to what hair is left in her ponytail drops out, and strands fall into her face.

  And I hate myself for asking. Because of course she didn’t do this. She couldn’t do this. She’s only Phase 2.

  But so was Dad.

  ‘Gabby,’ I say, ‘I need to know. Are you sure? I mean, maybe BMAC got your phase wrong? Are you sure you’re not … Phase 3?’

  Her wet eyes meet mine, and her mouth is pulled into s
uch an anguished frown it hurts to look at. She looks up at the ceiling, as if she can find some answer in the air above her. ‘I didn’t,’ she squeaks.

  The look on her face, the sound of her voice, so hopeless – I believe her. In my gut I do. Who did make the Move, though?

  Gabby sniffles quietly into her hands, and I want to tell her I’m sorry, that she doesn’t need to cry, but a man’s voice cuts me off.

  ‘Teacher says she’s with some boy.’ The voice echoes up the stairs from somewhere below. ‘Another Mover, wearing a baseball hat.’

  The way he says it kicks my heart into panic. Mover. Like he can’t stand the taste of it.

  ‘Another one?’ A second voice. ‘What phase?’

  Gabby’s shaking behind me, her breath coming in panicked gulps. I put my finger to my lips and she nods.

  I creep up to the railing and peek down between the spiralling stairwells. I can see movement, just shadows in the white, but there are definitely people coming.

  ‘Phase 1, but even still. We’ll have to bring him in,’ the deep voice says. ‘BMAC policy, you know that.’

  BMAC.

  ‘We’re going to need to talk to him.’

  ‘The girl?’ asks the other.

  ‘What’s to talk about?’

  Gabby. They’re here for her.

  Something pokes into my back, and when I turn round Gabby nods at the door to floor 48. Slowly she pushes it open and we both wince at the quiet click. We listen. BMAC’s still talking, which means they didn’t hear it. Quietly Gabby pushes further but it stops. She pushes again. There’s something blocking it on the other side. She pushes harder, and there’s a bang. I jump on her, pulling her back from the door. ‘They’ll hear you,’ I hiss.

  I grab the door and try to push, but it won’t go. I can feel there’s something holding it shut.

  ‘Help me!’ I order in a whisper, and Gabby uses all her strength against the door while I try to budge it with my shoulder.

  And then I hear BMAC. ‘Who’s there?’

  Frantically I lean back on the railing and slam my foot into the door, again and again as Gabby groans from the strain on her shoulder.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ the officers shout.

  Whatever is blocking the door budges inch by inch until finally there’s just enough room to squeeze through – well, for me to squeeze through anyway.

  Gabby keeps pushing while I wiggle my way out, doing her damnedest to make enough room for herself.

  As my lower half pulls free of the tight opening, I trip over a chunk of wall and land on a pile of broken school. I’ve seen a lot today, but I wasn’t expecting to see this – floor 48 is unrecognisable. I’d have a better shot navigating the surface of Mars. It’s dark; I can’t even see the red glow from the exit signs. But the flashes from outside blaze with light and I can see everything clear as day in split-second intervals. Across from me is a classroom, sort of. The wall separating it from the hallway is gone. Lockers lie scattered and crushed beneath more broken cement. The windows are all shattered and the stormy wind blows through, cooling my cheeks. The lightning weaves outside like blue ribbons, and it kisses the walls and floor every so often. I flinch as lightning strikes the teacher’s desk and the whole thing jumps and lands back down with a crash. The ceiling is slanted low, and there are sinister cracks branching out above me. If I stand on my toes I can touch it with my head.

  How did this happen? A Move, but this is all too much. This can’t be just any Move. I’m eight years old again and the wind’s tickling my ears. Dad’s yelling at me to get away from the window, but I don’t listen. The lightning’s dancing above our apartment building and I’m wrapped up in the show.

  The floor below me is steady, stable. Dad wraps his right arm around me and hoists me off my feet to join Mom, who’s soothing the screaming baby beneath the kitchen table. The storm rages, but I’m safe in Dad’s grip. It’s loud and it’s noisy and the windows shatter, but the ground is stable.

  This is so different.

  So powerful.

  The sound of Gabby’s grunting pulls me back from the memory and I see her head trying to poke through the little gap in the door. One of the fallen, crunched-up lockers lies in front of it, barring her way.

  I can hear the officers’ voices, both of them shouting for us to stop.

  ‘Hang on,’ I say. The locker is weighed down by rubble and with all my might I can barely drag it a couple inches, but it’s enough for Gabby to squeeze through. When she’s finally out, I try to move it back to block the door. ‘Gabby, help me!’

  Her hands are over her mouth. Floor 48’s a shock for Gabby too, but we don’t have time for her to take it all in. BMAC is coming.

  ‘Gabby!’

  ‘Don’t run!’ The officers’ voices are clear and loud, just beyond the door.

  Gabby jumps down beside me and the two of us growl against the weight of the locker as the officers appear in the window. It budges forward and the door clicks off the latch and collides with the locker so there’s nothing but a tiny crack that BMAC can’t fit through.

  Their furious faces scowl at us through the tiny window. ‘Open this door,’ shouts one of them, pounding on the glass.

  The second officer isn’t wasting time negotiating. There’s a loud wham, wham, wham, as he throws his shoulder against it. The locker won’t hold them long.

  A nagging tingle in my skull begins to grow. My Shadow tries to connect, confusion swelling and shrinking at his end.

  There’s another locker on my left. It’s leaning forward. With just a bit more weight …

  I jump and grab the top of the leaning locker, pulling it down with a crash on top of the other, dust and rubble raining down as pieces of the ceiling come away.

  ‘Run, Gabby! Run!’ I grab her hand and drag her along as I race for where I think the north stairwell should be. There’s junk and busted school all over the place and I trip and scrape my knee on a chunk of wall. I bite through the pain – no time to slow down – and pull Gabby along, hurdling fallen lockers and broken beams as I sprint down the hallway, but I’m not sure where I am. I’m just hoping the stairs are somewhere in this general direction.

  My arm nearly gets ripped from my body as Gabby comes to an abrupt stop in front of a collapsed library room.

  ‘Come on!’ I order, yanking her after me.

  She jerks her hand out of mine and points to a grey door hanging crooked on its hinges. ‘The stairs.’

  She’s right.

  I leap over what’s left of the library wall and kick the crooked door aside.

  The north stairwell is as bad as the rest of 48. The flight down to 47 has split in half, the lower half fallen down on top of 46.

  ‘Gabriela Vargas?’

  BMAC.

  A surge of stomach juice shoots up from my gut, burning my throat.

  I look up and there are two new agents, flying down the stairs at least five floors above us.

  ‘Move Gabby, move!’

  And then there’s a pop.

  I know that sound.

  It doesn’t sound like it does in the movies.

  It’s louder.

  Sharper.

  BMAC is shooting.

  Pop.

  Another shot and I cover myself, dropping to my knees. Hands are on my back, pushing me to keep going, and I’m surprised when I look back to see Gabby, nudging me on.

  ‘Stop right there!’ bellows the officer.

  We don’t.

  ‘Go, Gabby, go!’ I scream. She stays on my heels, practically throwing her body down the staircase. We leap four stairs at a time, like maybe we can stay ahead of the bullets.

  ‘Don’t stop!’ I yell, and Gabby’s not about to. We have to get out of here.

  And then there’s a blast – an explosion – of blue-white light somewhere above us and Gabby and I drop to the floor, arms over our heads as debris rains down. Lightning? How would lightning get in here?

  I glance up, and
I can hear the officers shouting, the pop of their guns firing wildly, but at what? Not us, something else. Something on one of the landings above them.

  Birds. Dozens of ugly black crows circle above the screaming agents as a spark ignites somewhere in the middle of the flock.

  And then, the rush.

  A scream of wind fills my ears just before a whip of lightning explodes from the centre of the circling crows, striking out at the officers and splintering the staircase.

  They fall. It’s the last thing I see before I have to cover my eyes, the brightness nearly blinding me – BMAC, falling, crying out as they plummet in a blur of grey.

  And then there’s nothing. No shouting, no pop, no nothing.

  Gabby peeks down over the railing while my blood thunders beneath my skin.

  ‘BMAC?’ I whisper. ‘Are they … dead?’

  Gabby ignores me and looks up, and I copy her. The BMAC agents are gone, but there’s someone there – a tall, dark-haired man with square shoulders, dressed all in black. He’s like a ghost, his face shrouded in the cloud of white. He’s too old to be a student and he’s definitely not wearing the usual grey of a BMAC agent. He stands there, staring down at us, and all I want to do is keep running, to get out before whoever that is up there blasts us the same way he did the agents.

  Her muscles have locked up, but still she’s shaking, trembling. Her mouth hangs wide open as she stares up at the man.

  ‘Gabby?’

  She gasps at the air, trying to find her breath, gulping, hyperventilating, and for a second I’m worried she’s about to have a stroke or something.

  I look back to the figure leaning over the railing. He’s just staring down at us, birds circling, like he’s in no hurry to be anywhere else.

  The man lifts his hand, and I brace myself for the blast. But there isn’t one. Just the man’s raised hand. A wave.

  I hear Gabby gasp. When I turn back she’s already running down the stairs, the fastest I’ve ever seen her move.

  I hurry after her, looking back over my shoulder at the figure above us. The lightning. What kind of person can control lightning? From the look on Gabby’s face, I think she knows the answer.