“Is it a paying gig? How much did they offer you?” Lyda says sharply.
“What? Lyda, you know that I want to be here. Where else on earth would I more want to be than at your side?” She reaches out for Lyda’s hand, but Lyda pulls it from her.
“I have mothers,” Lyda says. “I have so many mothers out there I don’t need you. Do you hear me? I don’t need you at all.” Lyda turns, scoops up her pocketbook—Freedle safely within it—and walks down the hall.
“Lyda! Don’t do this!” her mother shouts, running after her.
Lyda opens the nursery door, but before she can shut it, her mother jams her body into the frame. She sees the wrecked crib, the pile of spears, the wood shavings, the knife, the stack of ripped baby books, the bowl of ash—all of it lost in the swirling cinders projected by the small orb sitting in the center of the room. “My God. Lyda.”
“Get out. This is for me. It’s mine alone.”
Mrs. Mertz locks her eyes on Lyda. “What have you become?” Her mother stumbles backward, catching herself on the wall, leaning against it, breathing heavily.
Lyda shuts the door and locks it. She slides down, presses her back to the door, and sits on the floor. What have I become? She opens her pocketbook and pulls out the swirled nest of the hand towel where Freedle is sleeping.
“Freedle,” she whispers. “How did we get here?”
Freedle’s eyes blink open. He stretches his frail wings. She wants to dig through her maternity dresses and pull out the armor. She wants to feel encased, protected.
“How do we get back out?” she says.
And then suddenly she feels like her chest is filled with rage. She finds a seam in the side of her dress, grips the dress in her fists, and rips its skirt all the way to her waist. She takes more fabric and rips it, rips more and more, until it’s shredded.
“My mothers,” she whispers. “I miss my mothers.”
PRESSIA
DOORS
Mother Hestra walks Pressia to the periphery of the woods. There, a few mothers work quickly. They’ve pulled out catapult machinery and baskets of robotic spider grenades.
“They’ll lay down cover for you,” Mother Hestra says. “It’s the best we can do.”
“Did you give her warning? Special Forces are different out there now,” one of the mothers says to Mother Hestra.
“I know,” Pressia says. “I’ve seen ’em.”
“The ones like Dusts?” Mother Hestra asks.
Pressia shakes her head. “What? Like Dusts? How?”
“No time to explain. You’ll see,” one of the mothers says, loading a catapult with a grenade.
The other mothers move in around her. They explain what’s going to happen.
“We’ll attack from here.”
“You walk the woods’ edge that way.”
“And we’ll distract.”
“Okay,” Pressia says.
Mother Hestra hands her a knife. “I don’t think it’ll be of much use, but at least you’ll have it.”
Pressia thanks her and slips it between her belt and the waist of her pants.
Mother Hestra backs away from her, gives a wave, and then turns to go.
“Wait,” Pressia says.
But Mother Hestra starts running into the woods. And in a few quick strides, she and her son are lost in the trees and the brush. Gone. Pressia wanted another moment—one more good-bye. But she realizes nothing would have made this easier. She squints at the Dome and then starts walking the edge of the woods. She just has to manage not getting shot on the way to the Dome, and then hopefully she’ll have a chance to say who she is, her connection to Partridge, and be brought in—as a prisoner? Her goal is to be taken in alive.
She hears something in the woods—the crunch of leaves. Are the mothers following her? Do they not trust her? They could decide at any moment to pull their offer and attack her. She starts walking faster. It could be a Beast or Special Forces. It could be anyone, anything. She shouldn’t run, because she needs to pace herself, but she sees something—a shape darting between distant trees. She starts running, just inside the tree line. She can’t expose herself—not until the mothers fire their first shot.
Through the limbs of passing trees, she sees the motion of a gray shape, then a twisted horn. Finally, she sees a clearing and a sheep, standing stock-still, staring at her with engorged eyes. The sheep has gray wool and a long twisted horn that curls over his skull. He’s lost from his herd, maybe the only one still alive. He bleats at her with a voice as sad and desperate as the boy—the soldier—with the stumped arm in the city, shot dead. The sheep paws the wet ground as if making a demand. One back hoof is gnarled, nearly useless. He’s gaunt and his ribs protrude. Starving.
She walks toward him. His teeth jut out; his jaw is crooked. He bleats again, showing a bluish tongue. She reaches out her hand. The sheep inches closer to sniff it. She reaches up and touches the tuft under his chin. “It’s okay,” she whispers. He nuzzles her fingers.
Beautiful, alone, starving. She can’t help him. She couldn’t save Wilda either. She isn’t sure that she can save herself.
And then there’s an explosion. The sheep jerks its head up and then darts off, bounding deep into the woods.
It’s time. The mothers have started their barrage. Pressia walks toward the barren land she has to cross and stands behind a tree. She sees the smoke and the rising dust and ash from the first grenade. The clouded air will help provide cover.
She looks at the incline standing before her—at the top of it, the Dome itself.
And then the hill starts to shift. Bodies emerge, covered in dust and ash. Where did they come from? How long have they been there? They’re lean boys, lumbering toward the explosion, and then just as quickly as they appeared, some disappear again, becoming one with the ground—fully camouflaged. The mothers send out another grenade. It hits the wet ground and then, after a few seconds, explodes. The boys start firing into the woods, but she can’t even see any of them. Occasionally, the dirt seems to move, but then nothing.
She has to start running. The mothers have already wasted two grenades. She scans the ground and takes off sprinting. Like the sheep, she thinks. Like the sheep who’s lost the herd.
The grenades, though far off to her right, are deafening. They send up gusts of smoke and ash. One explodes and she’s sure it’s hit nothing, but then from the ground there’s a spray of blood and flesh. Her grandfather once explained land mines to her, and it’s as if the boys themselves are living land mines—ever shifting invisible land mines.
She keeps running as fast as she can, hoping that if she gets to the Dome, she’ll have enough breath in her lungs to explain who she is. I’m Partridge Willux’s sister. Tell him Pressia is here.
But then the ground disappears under her feet, and she falls into a shallow pit.
The dirt dents and gives and crumbles around her as she tries to get up.
An elbow.
An arm.
A gun lodged in the arm and pointed at her.
A face freshly punctured and embedded with glass—so new that there are fresh scabs crystallized around each piece. It’s a boy’s face. He has a crooked nose and dark red lips, and when he smiles—why is he smiling?—she sees the worst part. He’s still wearing braces—though crusted with dirt.
I’m Partridge Willux’s sister. Tell him Pressia is here. She thinks these words but realizes she isn’t saying them. The wind is harsh. The air is thick. The boy’s face—his smile—appears between swaths of smoke.
“I got one. I got one,” he says in a low whisper. “I got one.” It’s as if he’s so proud of himself in this moment he wants to enjoy it. Killing her would end it all too quickly. He glances around and says more loudly, “I got one!” He’s looking for a witness. What’s the point of killing her if no one sees it?
She coughs and finally sputters, “I’m Partridge Willux’s sister.”
His face contorts. He doesn’t unders
tand.
“Don’t kill me. Take me in. Take me to Partridge. I’m his sister.”
He shakes his head. “No sister,” he says. “No daughter.”
And he’s right, of course. No one in the Dome knows that Willux’s wife had a child out of wedlock, much less a girl named Pressia.
“I’m his half sister,” she says, trying again. “Please. Take me in as a prisoner.”
“Take no prisoners,” he says. “Take no prisoners!” He shoves the muzzle of the gun under her chin.
“This is a mistake,” she says, swallowing hard. “Don’t do this.”
He softens for just a minute, taking in her face. But then his eyes glance over the doll head and he knows she’s a wretch like all the rest—and isn’t he part wretch too? He smiles again. He’s going to enjoy killing her. She clenches her eyes, waits for the bang.
But then the boy is gone, his body slammed into the ground by someone much bigger and broader.
She sees the bent metal prosthetic first, and then Hastings’ face comes into view.
He came after her! She didn’t want him to, but damn—she’s glad he did.
He pounds the soldier into the ground with his prosthetic—so hard this time she’s sure the leg will snap. But it doesn’t. He grabs her hand and says, “Let me take you in.”
“They know you’ve crossed over, though, don’t they? You’ll be seen as a traitor.”
“I’m taking you in,” he says, and he grabs her arm and sweeps her up to his chest. He holds her so tightly she can barely breathe.
He runs jaggedly but fast. The ground keeps exploding. The air is choked with dirt and death.
And finally she sees the white of the Dome before them. How does it stay so white in all of this dark soot? She tells him to stop. “Let me down. I’ll go the rest of the way!”
He doesn’t listen.
She wriggles loose her doll-head fist and punches as hard as she can. He doesn’t flinch. She tries a few more times. Nothing.
Finally, she finds the meat of his bicep and then the finer skin of the inner arm and she bites it as hard as she can. She tastes blood.
He arches and lets her go.
“Thank you,” she says breathlessly.
He rubs his inner bicep. His hand comes away bloody.
She turns toward the Dome.
“Stay straight,” he says, “and you’ll meet the first in a series of doors.”
She nods and looks back at him. “Tell El Capitan and Helmud, tell Bradwell…” She chokes up on Bradwell’s name.
“What?”
“Tell them that I made it this far.” She turns and starts running. The ground hisses with wind. Sometimes whirls of dirt rise then scatter and disappear.
She can see the door straight ahead, just as Hastings told her. She speeds up, but then her foot catches on the ground and she falls. She turns back to see what tripped her. Matted hair—a head crowning from the ground. A hand reaches out and snatches her ankle. She kicks it with the heel of her boot while fumbling for her knife. She reaches forward, jabs the knife into the wrist. Its fingers flex. She pulls her knee to her chest. The head raises itself up and there’s a face. Two bright eyes. A row of teeth.
She gets to her feet and runs to the door as the soldier tugs his bloody wrist loose. She raises both fists and bangs on the door. She wants in. “Help!” she cries. “Help me! Let me in!” Her knuckles ache, but she keeps knocking—sharp and quick.
The soldier is on his feet, and he’s lumbering toward her. She’s breathless. She tries to flatten herself against the door.
And then she hears a clicking noise—a pop like a seal has broken. The door gives. The air inside is cool and clean.
A uniform. A guard.
She says over the wind, “I’m Partridge Willux’s half sister.”
A man’s voice says, “We know who you are.” He grips her wrist, pulls her in against the current of the wind.
She glimpses the soldier one last time, his hand bloody and limp.
The guard closes the door. He’s armed and has one hand on the handle of his gun—not yet drawn, but ready.
She’s in a chamber, quiet and still, locked between two doors—one to the outside and the other leading into the Dome.
For the first time in Pressia’s life, she’s on the inside.
PARTRIDGE
IMPERSONATION
Partridge is in one of the greenrooms of what they call the cathedral-gym-atorium. It’s the site for the wedding, and moments after it will be quickly transformed into a banquet hall. It’s been used for every major event in the Dome that Partridge can remember—politics, religion, entertainment. He listened to his dad’s speeches here—Foresteed’s too. He’s seen the Nativity performed here as well as entertainers dressed in strange costumes lip-syncing the words to pop songs on the sanctioned list. The crowd screamed like they were real and not impersonating anyone at all.
Partridge reminds himself that he’s impersonating himself.
Beckley says, “You ready or what?”
Partridge looks at himself in the full-length mirror—a mirror his father looked into many times. He thinks of his father just before he died, how he grabbed Partridge’s shirt with one clawlike hand and told him that he was his son. You are mine. Murder was the thing that finally bound them together. Partridge looks at himself standing there in his tuxedo, and he knows he’s a killer about to become a father too—and now a husband.
“Is anyone ever ready for something like this?” he asks Beckley.
“Yeah,” Beckley says, wearing a tux of his own, his gun wedged in the back of his pants. “I think it’s something people are compelled to do, actually.”
“You sound like someone who’s been in love.” Partridge realizes he doesn’t know much of anything about Beckley.
“I was in love once,” he says.
“With who?”
“It doesn’t really matter anymore,” Beckley says. And Partridge is sure that this means the one he once loved is dead.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
And there it is. Beckley was old enough to have fallen in love before the Detonations.
“You think you’ll fall in love again one day?”
He straightens Partridge’s bow tie. “I sure as hell hope not.”
There’s a light knock at the door.
“It’s time,” Beckley says. “This is it.”
Beckley opens the door that leads to the stage or the altar or the trophy platform—depending on how someone sees it. Partridge can hear all of the voices talking at once.
He pulls Beckley back. “Tell me I should do it.”
“I can’t do that.”
“But would you do it, Beckley?”
“I’m not you.”
“But if you were…”
“I can’t even imagine what it’s like to be you, Partridge.”
Partridge wonders if Beckley hates him. Does he resent him for everything he’s been given or is it something else? It’s the kind of thing Partridge has gotten good at picking up on, but he can’t quite read Beckley. “Still, you understand me on some level, Beckley.”
“Do you think that’s really possible? Don’t you know the trade-offs by now?”
“What? I can’t ever expect anyone to understand me—just because of who my father was and the life I was born into?” He thinks of Bradwell and El Capitan. Were they ever his friends? Probably not. They hated Partridge on some level too.
“Do you want people to like you just for being you? I’d have guessed you’d have outgrown that by now.”
Partridge feels sucker punched. He likes Beckley because he’s honest—but that honesty’s a double-edged sword.
Beckley opens the door wide and holds it open.
Partridge has no choice. He steps through it, and the large hall is filled with shushing. It reaches all the way to the back, and suddenly it’s quiet. Partridge moves to his spot in the middle of the alt
ar and then turns to face the audience.
My God, Partridge thinks. Everyone is here. He sees a few rows of academy boys, his neighbors from Betton West, Purdy and Hoppes with their families, Foresteed, Mimi wearing a large jeweled hat and staring at the altar, and even Arvin Weed, who gives a nod. Maybe he’s forgiven him for the punch.
Partridge scans the sea of eyes staring back at him. People are gazing, smiling, already pressing tissues to their damp cheeks. They love him again. He glances at Beckley, who’s standing a few feet away, stiff and tough jawed. He wants Beckley to admit there’s something about this outpouring that isn’t just about who his father was. There’s something personal about it. How else could you explain these faces, these tears, this gazing?
He keeps searching the crowd, realizing that he’s looking for Lyda. Is she out there somewhere? Would she actually come to this event? She approved of it. In fact, she pushed him to do it. But would she even be allowed to be here? If Lyda isn’t here, is she at home? The cameras are poised on him. The bright lights are hot overhead. He looks into one of the cameras. He wants to tell her something. He wants her to know this isn’t real. I’m an impersonator impersonating myself, he wants to say. But he can’t. So he gives a wink and a small wave. Will she know that it’s meant for her?
The crowd notices the wave and they collectively sigh.
Beckley reaches forward and claps Partridge on the back. An apology or a consolation? Partridge isn’t sure.
And then with little warning, the faint background music that he hasn’t even really noticed fades, and for a few seconds, all is silent.
Then organ music pours triumphantly from the ceiling. The audience stands in unison and turns.
At first Partridge only sees the camera flashes bursting madly, and then Iralene comes into view, emerging from all the popping lights at the end of a long white carpet that leads to the altar—to him. Her face is lost behind a white veil.
For a minute, he thinks it could be Lyda under that veil.
But he can tell by the poised way that she walks, the lift of her chin, and the measured steps that this is Iralene. This is the moment she’s been groomed for.
Burn (The Pure Trilogy) Page 25
