by Katie French
Sprintin’ up, I used the shadows as my camouflage. They ain’t lookin’ back here anyhow. They’re too busy arguin’ over who’s gonna throw my little brother to his death. Rage boils in my chest, turnin’ into somethin’ molten. It slips down my limbs, into my fingers, and up into my brain. I let that familiar feelin’ tighten my fists. This feeling is what someone I knew—hell if I can remember who now—used to call the Cold Steel. As I run toward the shapes, I feel more hot than cold. More fire than ice. Ready to burn whoever stands in my way.
All other thoughts fall away as I make my approach on the driver. His outline is the farthest one to the left, with long arms and legs silhouetted against the night sky. My eyes make out his head, his hand, and the solid shape of the gun in it. I’m six feet away. Five. I run as quiet as I can, but he turns toward me as I draw back my fist.
My fist sails through the air and connects with his jaw in an amazin’ pop. The dark shape of his head snaps sideways. He doesn’t have time to call out before his knees unhinge, and he buckles forward. My other hand snaps out and snatches the gun before he has time to take it to the ground with him.
God, it feels good to have a gun in my hand. I whip toward Hank and Cole at the lip of the crater.
“Let him go and back away slowly,” I say to Hank, aiming at his chest. “Or I’ll separate your head from your scrawny, chicken neck.”
“Clay!” Cole shouts.
The lump on the ground who is indeed Betsy repeats it. “Clay!”
“You survived,” Hank says, using Cole as a human shield. “You’re just in time. Now you can watch your brother learn how to fly.”
“You son of a bitch,” I spit, trainin’ the gun over Cole’s shoulder where one of Hank’s dark eyes peeks out. It’s too close of a shot to take even if I’ve practiced it a thousand times. If either of them move an inch… “Let go of him, step away, and I won’t shoot you.”
Hank laughs, gripping Cole’s arms until the skin puckers white between each of his fingers. “You think I trust a word that comes out of your filthy liar mouth? Mike didn’t trust you, either. You were supposed to get in, not out. Get it?”
I take a step forward. “I don’t give two hot shits about Mike, or you. Now give me Cole, or I’ll stop askin’ nice.”
Hank’s smile widens. “Don’t think so.” His eyes flick to the space behind my shoulder.
There can only be one thing he’s lookin’ at. I whirl in time to dodge the hunk of rock in the driver’s raised fist before he brings it down. The rock misses my skull and smashes down on my shoulder with a bone-quaking crunch. Pain shoots down my arm, up my neck. The blow sends me teeterin’ right. I lift the gun in my right hand, aim at the driver, and get my grip on the trigger.
Arms wrap around my legs, yankin’ me sideways. The gunshot rings out, but I can tell it missed as I fall into the dirt. A thorny bush claws at my face as I go down. I tighten my fist as I fall. A gunslinger never lets go of his gun. Not unless his hand is gone with it.
On the ground, tangled in a bush, I roll and sit up. Hank’s wrapped around my legs. He shakes his head and springs away. Bounds like a jackrabbit into the dark. My left arm’s hurtin’ like the devil, but I don’t need it. I pull my right arm free from the branches and level the gun at Hank’s retreating backside.
“Aaaaggghh!” a voice yells to my right. The driver rushes at me with the rock again. I swing the gun right, center it on his chest, and fire.
My gunshot rolls over the hilltop. In the moonlight, I watch as the driver stops in his tracks and stares the flower of blood seeping through his shirt. The rock falls from his hand. His face is stunned. It’s the face they all have as they realize their card’s been punched. His jaw drops. His eyes find mine and mark me as the one who took his future. Then he falls face-first into the dirt.
“Never give your position away before you attack,” I say to his dead body.
I get up and aim at Hank retreating over the hillside.
Cole’s arms circle my middle, and his sweaty face presses into my stomach.
I watch Hank’s shape grow smaller in the distance. Then I uncock the gun and hug my little brother.
***
We walk toward the road, Cole and me, with Betsy behind us. She started followin’ when we left the crater’s edge. Cole threw a rock at her and told her to git. Guess she was in on the plan to get rid of Cole. But she just kept sobbin’ and slumpin’ after us. One rock was all Cole had the stomach for because after that, he left her alone, and she kept her distance. I don’t know what to do with her. I ain’t about to abandon no girl, but I’m not real keen on takin’ her with us.
The shoulder the driver smashed with a rock blares with pain, as persistent as the alarms ringing in the crater below. It’s dislocated, and it won’t be any good ’til it’s set right. When we’re far enough down the hill to put a good distance from Hank, I stop walkin’.
Cole peers up at me with wide brown eyes. “Your face is dirty.” He points at my nose.
I laugh despite my pain and run my sleeve over my face. When I pull my arm away, the fabric is black. “Better?”
He nods, his hair flopping over his eyes. “You looked like a soot gremlin.”
“What’s a soot gremlin?” I ask, swipin’ at my face again.
“Auntie used to pretend to catch ’em in the fireplace. Said they was magic.” He flashes a smile. “I’m glad you ain’t dead.”
I lean toward him. “I’m glad I ain’t, too.”
Behind us, Betsy shuffles up, hiccuppin’ with sobs. She plods to a stop through some branches and watches us with wet cow eyes. We glance at her, and then turn away. She’s like a mosquito we’re sick of swattin’.
“Cole, I need you to do somethin’ for me.” I tuck my gun in my pants and use my good hand to massage my dislocated shoulder. “Need you to pop my shoulder in real quick.”
He stares up at the left shoulder under my shirt, the joint sitting too far forward. “Won’t it hurt?”
“Like a kick to the balls,” I say, smilin’ so he knows I’m fine. “But it hurts more havin’ it out of place. It’ll feel better when it’s back. And I need this arm.”
“For Hank?” Cole asks, his frown returnin’.
I lean down and put my hand on his shoulder. “That bastard won’t hurt you again.”
His eyes go to my shoulder. “How do I do it?”
I glance behind me and then down the hilly slope. Betsy looks up at me from twenty feet away, her face glistening with snot. The rest of the hill is quiet, except for the occasional rumble beneath our feet. The bomb did its job. Everything behind me collapsed as I climbed up that pipe like a monkey with his tail on fire. The people in that compound are either dead or about to be. The guilt constricts my chest again, but I push away. Those people weren’t nothing to me. This boy, this bright-eyed boy with a smile that will light up any dark corner, is what I care about. I know it’s probably wrong what I did, but I had to.
I lay down on what looks like a clear dirt patch, though it’s hard to tell in the dark. “Come sit by my bad shoulder,” I tell him. He sits on his bottom with his feet toward me and waits for his next instructions. “Put one boot here,” I say pointing to where my shoulder and neck meet, “and one here.” I point to my ribs. “You’re gonna need to push away with your legs while you pull my arm up and back.”
He stares at me with wide eyes. “What if I hurt you?”
“Won’t hurt,” I lie. “Just go slow, but don’t stop. Take my hand, pull my arm slowly back, and then up. The arm bone has a ball at the end. The socket is a cup. You’ll probably feel it when they fit back together.”
He nods, reachin’ down and takin’ my left wrist in his hands. “Yell if you want me to stop.”
I lie back, closing my eyes, and slow my breathin’. “Keep going ’til you feel it pop back into place.”
I close my eyes while Ethan begins to draw my arm away from my body.
The pain that was a throb begins to
spike harder and harder as he pulls. I draw myself away from my shoulder and turn my mind in. She’s there the minute I go lookin’—Riley with the dark hair and dark eyes. I see the soft, peach divot of her belly button, the way her bottom lip is fuller than the top, so full, round, and red it’s like a ripe fruit. I picture myself takin’ it between my lips. Tastin’ her. The longin’ swells in my stomach.
My shoulder pops, and my body constricts with white-hot pain. I let out a groan. Shockwaves of fire radiate down my ribs and into my neck.
“Sorry, Clay!” Cole scrambles to his feet. “Told you it would hurt!”
I feel the socket with my good hand. He did it. Slowly, I raise the arm. It hurts like a gut wound, but it works. The arm works.
“You’d make a hell of a field medic,” I say, pullin’ him in for a pat on the back. He falls on me with a giggle. With my good hand, I tickle until he’s belly laughin’ and rollin’ on top of me. Even with my shoulder hurtin’ fit to beat hell, this is the best I’ve felt in a long time.
“You seem better,” he says, starin’ into my face.
I frown. “I do? What was I like before?”
He sighs. “Not you. You were… lost.”
“I’m here now.” I ruffle his hair, tryin’ not to let him see how lost I still feel.
Gunshots stop us cold. I sit up, an arm around Cole. Even Betsy stops her cryin’ and looks down the dark hill to the bend where the road curves to the cavern’s entrance.
“Mike’s here,” I whisper.
Cole’s a frozen statue. “What do we do, Clay?”
I listen for a while. Men cry out. Guns rattle their staccato beats. How much blood is bein’ spilt?
“We get the hell away.”
I get up and pull Cole with me. We turn west, still skiddin’ down the moonlit hill with Betsy on our heels. It’s slow goin’ with the rough terrain. I can’t carry Cole with my arm the way it is. The gunfire continues in segmented bursts. There’s another explosion. “Jesus,” I say, “they’re really going at it.”
“Will they all die?” Cole asks.
I keep my head down and continue walkin’. “That’s none of our concern.”
We get to the bottom of the hill and the rocky dirt road that circles it. The gunshots fade behind us. Even Cole seems to have relaxed a little. And Betsy, still a dozen paces away, seems to have fallen in behind us.
Our pathway is a dirt driveway that climbs a steep incline. It’s slow going up the hill. But when we reach the top, the moonlight illuminates a flat, two-lane highway that will lead us out.
But as we’re headin’ toward it, a shape comes into a view. Someone runs up the road ahead. My hand drops down to the gun in my waistband, and I draw it out.
The runner doesn’t see us, so I put my hand on Cole’s chest to signal for him to halt and be still. The jogger is slender and small, a boy maybe. His hands circle a distended belly.
Headlights climb over the hill and pin the boy in their beams. He freezes and tears into the scrub. I watch, not sure I saw what I think I did. That boy didn’t look like a boy at all. It looked like—
“Who was that?” Cole asks, his hand tightening around mine.
The figure tries to plow through the brush, but the car—a sleek, futuristic vehicle with an engine as silent as death—goes off-road after the runner. From this distance, they won’t spot us, but we can see it all go down—the runner joggin’ into the weeds with both hands on his belly, the car barrelin’ over the scrub, catchin’ up to him and pinnin’ him in its headlights. Cole and I drop into the weeds as someone jumps out of the passenger side and tears after him.
“Clay?” Cole asks.
I hush him and keep my eyes on the struggle. If they don’t see us, they’ll go away.
The bigger figure drags the boy back, kickin’ and thrashin’. As the pair crosses in front of the car’s headlights, both figures come into view. A muscular military man with short-cropped hair and camouflage clothes drags the boy by the arms into the car. The man must’ve been from the compound because he’s dressed like the ones I saw. The boy is harder to see, he’s thrashing so hard. Slender arms and legs piston back and forth. The bulge on his belly is an object under his shirt, lumpy and hard judgin’ from the shape. When the boy strains against the military man’s grip, his face is finally lit up by the car’s headlamps.
Not a he. A she. Short, dark hair, dark eyes, a cupid-bow mouth, and a delicate jawline. My body freezes. I know that face.
A bolt of lightning rips across my forehead, separatin’ my brain in two. I hold my head and try to breathe. I can’t move. My head. I… can’t…
“It’s her,” Cole says. He pulls away from me, takin’ off toward the car.
I can’t grab him or stop him. “Cole!”
Through one squinted eye, I see the man and girl are in the car. They’re pulling away. Cole won’t get there in time.
“No!” he calls, battin’ away the dust it kicks up. “Stop!”
The headlights angle up and curve away down the dusty road.
“Cole.” My headache slowly draws back like a tide pullin’ away from the beach. I stumble forward. “Come back!”
When Betsy groans behind me, I’m startled. I forgot she was there.
“Great,” she huffs. “Riley’s back.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Riley
From the backseat, I kick any part of Dennis that isn’t protected by the solar car’s bucket seat. I kick at his head, his arms, and his shoulder. He reaches over the seat to pin me, but his hands keep slipping, and every time they do, I kick as hard as I can.
“I’m going to shoot her!” he screams to the driver.
“Don’t you dare,” the voice says through one of those black, insect-like facemasks.
I don’t need to see her face to know who it is. “Corra, you bitch, let me go!”
Corra glances at me over her shoulder. “We just saved your life. Think you’d be a little more grateful.”
“You saved my life? You sent me on a suicide mission!” I kick at both seats as Dennis tries to grab my legs. “Quit hiding behind that mask and face me!”
Corra lets the car coast to a stop on the roadside and unlatches the mask. She pulls it away, shaking out her hair. Dried blood meanders down her face from a huge cut above her right eye, and her short hair is plastered to her forehead with sweat and grime. Dark crescents under her eyes and her split bottom lip let me know she’s had it rough.
“You look like shit,” I say.
“Thanks.” She touches a finger to her cut lip. “The mask is to keep bacteria away from my wounds, not to hide.” She sets the masks in her lap and sighs. “We were attacked. Our friends are dead. I was nearly blown to bits.”
“Where’s my aunt?” I ask, looking between them. Dennis’s expression doesn’t change, but Corra drops her head in a way that makes me want to slap her. “Where is my aunt?”
“I don’t know,” Corra says. “An outsider got in. Must’ve been in the ventilation ducts. I had seconds to duck into one of the rooms before a bomb went off. Dennis got me out.”
I narrow my eyes. “You left everyone in there?”
She throws up her hands. “What could we do? The whole place was on fire. Men showed up with guns and clubs. They started attacking as we were trying to claw our way out!” The cut on her lip opens up, and a trickle of fresh blood meanders down her chin.
“You don’t have to explain anything to her,” Dennis growls. “She’s the one who told them where to hit us. She probably led that outsider right to our front door!”
“What are you talking about?” I say, turning on Dennis. “You gave us guns with no bullets!”
“That didn’t stop you from shooting our subjects, did it? We know one is dead. Its vital signs dropped out hours ago. You worthless piece—”
I punch Dennis in the face. My knuckles crunch against his cheek. He yowls and cups his face.
Corra lunges for me, pinning my arms. “
Enough! Both of you!”
As she’s holding me down, her eyes drop to the trembling creature in my shirt. “Oh my god. There it is.”
When she releases me, I hug Peanut. “You scared her.”
Dennis snorts. “Like you had nothing to do with it.”
“Dennis, shut up.” Corra doesn’t take her eyes off Peanut. “Can I see her?”
I hug her tighter. “She won’t like it.”
“Just lift your shirt,” Corra says, almost pleading.
Slowly, I pull up the fabric, revealing the dirty little girl clinging to my belly. When I expose her, Peanut grabs onto me so tight I can barely breathe. I pull the cloth back down and put my arms around her. “There,” I say, “you’ve seen her.”
“Amazing,” Corra says, using the quiet scientist’s voice. “Subject Seven was pregnant when she escaped, but we had no idea she’d deliver so soon. It must’ve only been—what?” She looks at Dennis and then back at my shirt. “Maybe a three-month gestation. And the little one has grown faster than we’d ever imagined.”
“How old is she?” I ask, glancing down at her.
Corra shrugs. “She can’t be more than a few months old.”
I look up, shaking my head. “That’s not…”
“What?” Corra asks. “Possible? Possible and impossible stopped meaning what they used to mean a long time ago. Puppies grow to maturity in a year. Hamsters in five to six months. Some fish reach sexual maturity in three weeks.”
“We aren’t puppies or fish,” I say, but my heart isn’t in it. Corra knows more about this than I could ever know. My mind drifts to the little one not on my belly, but in it. How far along has that thing matured? Can it feel what’s happening? Does it know what a terrible mother I will be?
“Riley,” Corra says, “it’s okay you killed Subject Seven. We don’t need it or Eight. All we need is Nine.” She nods to Peanut.
