Burn (The Pure Trilogy)

by Julianna Baggott

  Suddenly the wind lifts the front end of the airship. It’s as if Hastings is falling beneath her. She wants to drop Fignan to Fandra, hoping she’ll catch him, but can’t risk it.

  “We missed!” she yells.

  The heavier drone means that El Capitan knows and is pulling up to circle around for another try. They were so close.

  Bradwell pulls her back into the hull, and they sit breathing heavily.

  “Maybe he can reapproach facing the wind,” Bradwell says without looking at her. “He almost had it.”

  “We were really close,” Pressia says. And as she hears herself say these words to Bradwell, she wants to say them to him about them. They were so close. They were in love. Now this: the long silence, the tension, the disappointment. She wants back that tingle when he walked near her, not the thud of dread. Sitting this close to Bradwell should make her feel confident, happy, even as she’s about to lean out of the airship hundreds of feet off the ground.

  “We’ll get it this time,” Bradwell says.

  Pressia nods. But there’s no hope for the two of them, is there? She looks back toward the amusement park, the roller coaster like a giant sliced serpent, the gray horizon. This has been Fandra’s home, and Pressia is going to help her save it. Pressia misses her own home. As dirty and wrecked as it is, she’s almost back, which is a strange comfort.

  The airship moves in, closing on Hastings’ outstretched hands.

  Pressia faces the opening again and leans to Hastings, Bradwell’s strong hands on her hips. The airship lurches up briefly and then into almost a complete halt that allows Pressia to drop Fignan just a couple of inches into Hastings’ grip.

  “He’s got it!” she yells.

  Hastings turns quickly with the little black box playing its haunting melody and gives it to Fandra. He says something to Fandra, who looks up at Hastings through her wind-crazed hair, through the pelting sand and dust and ash. She smiles. And Hastings turns away and leaps at one of the airship’s legs. He balances there for a few moments, and then makes eye contact with Pressia, readying himself to swing up to her.

  “When I count to three,” Bradwell says.

  She nods.

  Bradwell tightens his grip. “One, two, three!”

  Hastings swings off the leg of the airship and clasps Pressia’s hand. She pulls with all her strength; Bradwell’s arms flex, pull her to his chest. The ground below is a blur. The wind fills her lungs, the airship noise roars in her ears—overwhelming. Hastings’ eyes are shot through with confident determination, and she feels the depth of her own strength as she and Bradwell pull Hastings toward the safety of the airship. Pressia is a link, saving Hastings from the sky and then the ground. Bradwell reels them all the way in, falling backward on his enormous wings, pulling Pressia with him.

  Hastings tumbles in, his metal prosthetic rattling on the floor.

  “Go, Cap! We’ve got him!” Bradwell yells. “Go!”

  Hastings rights himself and moves quickly back to the open cabin door. He holds up his hand, and then he lets it fall. He sits on the floor of the airship and leans against the wall, propping his good leg.

  Bradwell shuts the cabin door, locks it, and sits on the edge of his chair.

  Pressia moves quickly to the porthole. The Dusts are lumbering away from Fignan’s music, lugging their heavy bodies back over the broken fence. She sees Fandra. They lock eyes. Pressia spreads her hand on the small circular pane of glass. Fandra nods and smiles. She mouths, “Thank you!” Pressia wants to stop time, wants to confide in Fandra, to tell her everything, but the airship speeds up, banks left.

  El Capitan shouts, “Everybody okay?”

  “Okay?” Helmud cries.

  “We’re all good!” Bradwell says, relieved.

  “So glad you made it,” Pressia says, turning to Hastings.

  She sees some of Hastings’ prosthetic. Pressia specialized in making prosthetics while at OSR headquarters, and she can tell that the joints aren’t very flexible, but it’s sturdy workmanship. The lower leg is made of two bowed pieces of metal. She figures that they’d have a lot of parts to choose from in a fallen amusement park.

  “I made it, yes,” Hastings says, still breathing hard. “But we’re not okay. We’re not all good.”

  Bradwell leans forward. “Why are there more survivors at the amusement park now?”

  “They had to leave the city,” Hastings says. “It was no longer safe.”

  “It’s never been safe,” Pressia reminds him.

  “It’s worse now. Attacks—new ones.”

  “What kind of attacks?” Bradwell asks.

  “Special Forces attacks, and not even really coded troops. The wretches say the Dome is sending out troops that are still just boys, just a little bulked up. The fusings with their weapons are still so raw the skin puckers around them.” Hastings swallows hard. “I’m worried about what’s going on in the Dome.”

  “But Partridge is in charge now!” Pressia says. “Things are supposed to be better!”

  “Partridge is in charge?” Hastings asks. “Is Willux…?”

  “Dead,” Bradwell says. “I don’t like this. What kind of attacks are we talking about?”

  “Bloody ones,” Hastings says. “The boy soldiers are killing those in the city—a blood bath—but the mothers have moved in and are picking them off. Bloodshed on all sides.”

  Pressia feels sucker punched. Partridge, she thinks, how is this happening? “What else?” Pressia asks, sitting in her seat. “Tell us everything.”

  “I only know what I’ve told you. I haven’t seen it myself.”

  She doesn’t want to look at Bradwell. Will he blame Partridge?

  Bradwell says, “We have the means to take down the Dome, Hastings.”

  Hastings is lost. “How? It’s not possible.”

  Bradwell explains the bacterium given to them by Bartrand Kelly. “It’s ours now.” The threat lingers in the air.

  Pressia sits back and stares up at the curved ceiling. The engines are noise, and the airship bobbles and lifts.

  She looks out the porthole again. They’re passing over the terrain quickly—rocks, rusted hulls of trucks, traces of roads, charred rubble. They soon come to Washington, DC, and glide over the fallen tower, the Capitol Building with its crumbled dome, and what was once the White House, reduced to hunks of mossy pale rocks—all that marble and limestone. And then a zebra bounds through tall grass that gives way to marshland and woodland. The airship rises over a hill.

  Her heart starts beating more quickly. She takes a deep breath and blows it out. They’re getting close now, and what will she see? Bloodshed.

  She closes her eyes. Maybe Hastings is wrong. Maybe this is a miscommunication. Not bloodshed. There’s been enough loss.

  But then she hears Bradwell say, “Look at that.”

  She doesn’t want to open her eyes, but she does. And there is the darkened horizon—blotted with the rise of fresh smoke. Their city is on fire.

  PARTRIDGE

  SQUALL

  He walks out into the hall—into the shine of the tiles, the glare of fluorescent lights. He blows past Beckley.

  “Are you okay?” Beckley asks as he catches up to him.

  He doesn’t stop to answer.

  Forgive us. Forgive us all.

  Weed is there. He touches Beckley’s shoulder and says, “Give me a minute with him.” Weed walks up to him and says, “What’s wrong?”

  Partridge shakes his head to try to clear it. “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Partridge walks to the wall and stretches his hand on it; it’s cool to the touch. “I thought I could push it off on everyone else by telling the truth. I thought that made me better or exempt or something.” He sees his father’s eyes widening just as he realized that Partridge had poisoned him. “I’m one of us. No,” he says, and he feels short of breath. “I’m worse.”

  Arvin grabs his arm. “Shut up!” he says in a hoar
se whisper.

  “I know what I am now,” Partridge says. “I haven’t processed my father’s lies, what we were all complicit in—the guilt.”

  Arvin leans in close and whispers in Partridge’s ear, “Shut the hell up!” His face is rigid with anger. “Did you let her get to you? Jesus.”

  Partridge swings around to Weed, confused by his sudden anger. “I’m just realizing that I’m—”

  “You want to go home? Is this too much for your delicate constitution?”

  “Back off, Weed.” But actually, Weed’s nailed it. Partridge doesn’t want to see his father’s next generation: rows of clones. He can’t stomach it.

  “I’ll call you a car so you can go. That what you want?”

  “No.”

  “You have to want to know. I can only take you where you demand to be taken,” Weed whispers. “You know what I’m saying?”

  Partridge isn’t sure. Is Weed under someone else’s command—a command that only Partridge’s demands can override? “Okay,” Partridge says. “Let’s keep going. Take me to the babies.”

  Arvin calls to Beckley, and together without talking, they make their way down corridors and then to an elevator to another floor.

  They step into a hallway that’s lined with guards—one every fifty feet. Partridge remembers the smell—sweet, and like bleach. “Why are there all these guards?”

  Beckley eyes the guards and stays close to Partridge’s side.

  Weed says, “This floor is reserved for special cases.”

  “Special how?”

  “People who deserve a second chance!” Weed’s voice sounds forced. Does he think he’s being recorded? Weed stops then and says, “Do you want to turn back, Partridge? It can be arranged.”

  Partridge feels like this is staged. He says what Weed’s told him to say. “I demand to see the babies.”

  Weed nods without any hint of emotion.

  They walk down a corridor lined on one side with windows. Partridge walks up to the glass, and there he sees the rows of tiny incubators. The babies are so small they’d fit in a man’s palm. Some are sleeping; others kick. Some of their mouths are open, squalling, but the windows must be soundproof, because he hears nothing. Inside of the babies’ incubators and above them, there are screens showing human faces. The faces stare at the babies intently. They smile and blink. Their mouths are moving too—as if they’re singing.

  A nurse walks down one row and up the next.

  Partridge touches the glass and it’s warm. “What’s going to happen to them?”

  “They’ll be raised in a perfectly structured environment where they’ll receive the best education and physical fitness and affection.”

  “And parents who love them?”

  Weed doesn’t answer. He glances over his shoulder as if someone else is with them. “Are you ready to be escorted out?”

  Partridge thinks of Lyda—their baby. He feels like he’s on a train barreling away from them—an engagement, a wedding… How’s he going to get off the train?

  And then from far away, a scream echoes down the hall.

  “What was that?” Partridge says.

  “What was what?” Arvin says. “I can have someone escort you out,” he says again.

  Partridge ignores him and starts walking quickly toward the sound. Beckley keeps up with him. The guards stiffen and put their hands on their guns, but they don’t draw them.

  As Partridge rounds a corner, a guard reaches out and grabs his arm. A few others block the hall, side by side.

  “Hands off him,” Beckley says to the guard.

  “Sir?” one of the other guards says to Weed. “Should we bar him?”

  “His word overrides all of ours,” Weed says. “If he demands to go forward, he can go forward.”

  There’s another scream.

  “Goddamn it!” Partridge says. “I demand to go forward!”

  The guard loosens his grip. The other guards part.

  Partridge turns to Weed. “You’re still torturing people? Is that what you meant by giving people a shot at a second chance?”

  “Your father’s protocols are still in place. We can’t stop everything now that you’re in charge—just have the Dome come to a screeching halt?”

  “Goddamn it, Weed! No more torture.”

  “Your father’s enemies could become your own.”

  “I don’t care. This is over. Shut it down. Does Foresteed know about this?”

  Weed nods. “He’s overseeing the day-to-day until you get through your”—he pauses, looking for the right word—“grieving process, not to mention your upcoming wedding. You’re busy.”

  “I’m not a figurehead to be propped up for weddings and memorial services, Weed. I’m in charge, okay? I’m in charge of everything! Tell Foresteed I want another meeting.”

  There’s more screaming up ahead. Partridge starts running toward it. He passes large empty rooms, their shelves filled with Tasers and small, strange implements he doesn’t recognize. Some of the rooms have cameras; others are bare. Some have syringes lined up on metal trays and cuffs attached to the wall.

  “You’re making more changes,” Weed says. “Don’t you know these people can’t handle change?”

  Partridge turns on Weed. “Who are you, Arvin Weed? Who the hell are you? You want all of this to keep going? Why? Out of respect?”

  There’s a man’s guttural cry—not far off. Partridge runs to a door. It’s locked. “Open this door. Now.”

  Weed walks to a panel on the door. He enters a code. As the door opens, he shouts, “Incoming!”

  There are three people wearing surgical gear lightly splattered in blood. Cuffed to the wall is a man. Partridge can see his arms streaked with blood, covered in precise incisions. On the table in front of him there’s a Taser, a metal rod, and surgical implements.

  “Step away!” Partridge shouts.

  They all step back.

  And now Partridge sees the man in his entirety; his body has been cut open and stitched back up. He’s been beaten so badly that his skin is blackened with bruises. His face is so swollen that it’s unrecognizable—almost.

  Partridge’s heart is beating so loudly in his ears it’s deafening. He walks up and says, “Mr.—”

  The man’s eyes open, and yes—it’s him. Glassings. His World History teacher, the man who lectured on beautiful barbarism.

  “Partridge,” he says through his swollen, split lips.

  “Teacher,” Partridge says, and then he spins around and says, “Get him down. Now! I want him taken to my apartment. Nowhere else. I want him given round-the-clock care. You hear me? Now!”

  “He’s your enemy,” Weed says.

  Partridge clenches his fist, swings, and punches Weed in the jaw so hard Weed staggers into the wall and slides down it. Weed looks up at him, dazed. Partridge is stunned too. He forgets that he has some coding in him—strength, speed, agility. Not a lot—not like Special Forces—but more than Weed, who was brought in for brain enhancements, not those of the body.

  Partridge faces the others. “Get a doctor,” he says. “Move!” He walks back to Glassings. “It’s going to be okay,” he says, but Glassings has lost consciousness. His face is slack.

  Partridge can’t stand to be in this room anymore. He looks at all the instruments, the remaining torturers’ blank faces. He says to Beckley, “Make sure they do it right.”

  Partridge heads for the door, passing Weed, who’s rubbing his jaw.

  “Where are you going?” Beckley asks.

  “Just stay,” Partridge says. “Make sure they treat him respectfully. Make sure…” But he can’t even finish the sentence. He glances at Weed and is sure that he’s smirking at him. He’d like to punch him again.

  But he turns and walks out. Glassings. He loves him. When Partridge was sure his father didn’t care about him, he thought of Glassings as a father figure—and he can’t bear what they’ve done to him.

  He hears Beckley’s voice�
�“Careful now! Careful!”—and then he starts running down the hall. His knuckles are ringing with pain, but it felt good to punch Weed. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he keeps running until he is back at the bank of windows.

  He rests his fists and his forehead against the glass and looks at all of the swaddled bodies, the small buds of the faces. He says, “I’m going to be a father.” And he’s scared—of what Mrs. Hollenback did to herself and what’s been done to Glassings and of the future, but mostly in this moment he’s afraid of the infants’ delicate skin, the tiny fingers, the eyes that barely open. He takes his fists from the window and puts them in his pockets. He’s not allowed to be scared anymore.

  PARTRIDGE

  LOVEBIRD

  They’re in the academy gardens, surrounded by fake shrubs, fake flower beds, fake birdcalls in the fake trees. It’s winter, but they keep the garden looking like spring. Partridge hates the dishonesty. He’s still shaken by what he saw in the medical center. The shine of this garden—the cheery polish of buds and waxy leaves—only reminds him of the ugliness that’s hidden under the surface of things in the Dome.

  Partridge and Beckley are waiting for Iralene and the photographers who are supposed to catch them on this date, as if it’s not all staged. He’s restless. She’s late. He doesn’t want to be here anyway.

  “I want to see Glassings set up right. Make sure he has nurses coming in shifts and everything he needs, okay?”

  Beckley nods.

  “And when I say we’re done here, we’re done.” Partridge feels guilty. Even though Lyda urged him to go through with this charade, it feels like a betrayal. But he can’t bail. What if there were another surge in suicides? He’d only have himself to blame. And he can’t take on any more guilt. He feels like his chest is leaden with it all.

  It’s quiet except for the birdcalls. Partridge looks at the dimpled center of a sunflower and wonders if it could be a small speaker. He trusts nothing.