by Joe Hart
“You did admirably today. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” Preston smiles and turns away, following his wife down the stands with Chelsea close behind.
Zoey shifts her gaze from Merrill’s limping form across the arena to the toothless giant’s grin. An overwhelming dread encases her, freezing her solid where she crouches.
The coliseum gradually empties, heavy footfalls trailing off and giving way to the horrid music that begins again in the distance. She could lie down and become part of the dirt, sink into the soil and leave it all behind. Maybe she could forget everything, everyone who’s ever meant anything to her. It would be so much easier not to care.
She waits until the grounds begin to thin of wandering men before climbing out of her hiding place.
The night is deep, stars muted beyond the cold lights of the trade. Bellows and laughter hang in the air along with the smell of roasting food. She moves through shadow to the kitchen building, rapping once on the door. It opens, and Nell stands there looking more solid, coherency rather than shock in her eyes.
She searches Zoey’s face for a second before saying, “He didn’t win.”
“No. But he’s not dead yet. Tomorrow he fights again.” Zoey gazes to the side, past the tents and low buildings to where the fence begins. “I need you to get him a message. Can you do that?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Tell him to be ready.” And with that she turns and moves away, weaving through shadows and leaving the wretched music and din of the trade in her wake.
39
When Zoey returns to the ASV, Eli is already there talking in a low voice to Tia and Ian.
They turn as one at the sound of her footsteps, Eli raising his handgun in her direction.
“It’s okay. It’s me,” she says, stepping into the soft glow of Tia’s flashlight.
“You have any trouble?” Eli asks, holstering his weapon.
“No. Did you see . . .”
“Yeah. I was just filling them both in.”
Zoey moves to the steps of the vehicle and sits down. Her scalp itches. She needs a shower or a bath. Her hair is a tangled mass that she unclips and combs through with her fingers.
“He won’t be able to fight,” she says, glancing at the others. “There’s no way he can fix his leg by tomorrow night. Besides, they wouldn’t let him.”
“It’s all anticipation. Part of the show. Merrill getting killed by the big bastard will bring the crowd in for another night,” Eli says. “I got some information out of a drunk guy while I was there. Merrill’s opponent didn’t enter on his own.”
She glances up. “What? What do you mean?”
“From what this guy told me he was backed by six or seven other men because of his size and ability. They paid his way into the tournament in exchange for sharing Chelsea if he wins.”
“Motherfuckers,” Tia says. “We have to kill him. Kill the remaining guy.”
“That won’t work,” Zoey says.
“Why not?”
“Because they’ll find someone else for Merrill to fight. Or they’ll kill him and start the competition for Chelsea all over again. We couldn’t get close enough to do it anyway.”
Tia curses quietly and begins to pace. Ian strokes the side of his face and gazes off into the darkness of the surrounding forest.
“So what, we do nothing? We let Merrill die and watch Chelsea get taken by a group just like the one we found at Riverbend? No. No way that’s happening,” Eli says. “We have to find a way. How about the woman you went to see? Can she help somehow?”
The realization that she hasn’t told them who Nell is hits Zoey like a punch to the stomach. “I don’t think there’s anything she can do. But I know why I recognized her. I know who she is now.” Tia pauses in her pacing and Ian and Eli stare at her. “She’s Rita’s mother.”
Their stunned silence is broken as Ian takes a step closer to her and says, “Are you certain?”
“Yes. That’s why she looked familiar, and when I told her that Rita was still alive she completely broke down.”
“Holy shit,” Tia says. “I can’t believe it.”
“I couldn’t either, but even though it’s absolutely wonderful, it doesn’t help us get Merrill and Chelsea back.”
Zoey gazes down at her feet and continues to comb her hair in slow, deliberate strokes, the repetitive motion soothing. For a split second she imagines it is Lee’s hand, not her own stroking her hair. If he were here he would have a solution for the situation; he would know what to do. The longing to have him near, to embrace him and feel his skin against hers, his safety and comfort flowing through her, is so overpowering that her throat closes up with emotion. She can’t remember ever missing him this much.
But Lee is gone. Probably forever, and no one is going to help them.
She blinks away the gathering tears, lowering her face so as not to let the others see, and refocuses on the present. There has to be an answer, some weakness in the Fae Trade’s defenses that they’ve overlooked. Zoey runs her fingers through her hair again, working slowly on a stubborn knot. She gazes past the tops of the trees at the brilliant pinpoints of starlight, the distant peak of Scrimshaw Mountain a blunt shadow jutting into the sky. When the knot comes undone she winds her hair up and is about to tie it tight when it slips free and falls to her shoulders.
She freezes, eyes glazing over, staring at the mountaintop.
Weakness.
I’m their weakness.
“I have an idea,” she says, fingers gripping her hair in a solid fist.
They leave an hour before morning light in the ASV, its engine at a low idle until they are more than two miles away from the trade’s border. It is dawn by the time they find the small access road that splits from the main highway and meanders through a parched gully before winding into the forested foothills at the base of the mountain from the north. The road narrows until it is only a path, the scraping of overgrown tree limbs loud against the sides of the heavy vehicle.
Ahead there is the bumper of a car nearly overtaken by nature, a twinkle of dusty chrome only a suggestion in the sooty light. Past the car, the path opens up into a clearing of cracked concrete, dozens of trucks and cars parked between faded lines painted on the ground. A stainless steel tanker truck that looks much newer and cleaner than the other vehicles leans dangerously close to a hollow depression at the far corner of the lot, the words Westward Pacific Petroleum ghosts across its side. A log building stands before them straight ahead, windows broken, doors flung wide.
“That’s the ski chalet,” Tia says. “The main run starts on the opposite side. We should stop here.” Eli guides the ASV to the left, tucking it close to the forest edge, and parks. They climb out into the crisp morning air.
Zoey gazes down past the chalet, breath pluming before her. The slope drops quickly away and beyond it the western side of Southland is visible. She moves closer to the building until she can see the trade, quiet now after the night’s revelry, small dots of guards patrolling the perimeter the only movement.
“Zoey, I can’t make a shot from this distance,” Ian says, coming to stand beside her.
“I know.”
“Then why did you want us to come here?”
“I’m not sure yet.” She glances at Tia. “How does the chairlift work?”
“It runs off a diesel engine most likely. See that shack below the first pole? That’s where it’s housed.”
“Do you think it will run?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Could you make it work?”
“I can make anything work, girly, but I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“Me neither,” Eli says. “What do you have in mind?”
Zoey surveys the structure Tia pointed out before running her gaze up the cables supporting the dangling chairlifts, looking for breaks or frays. A dozen yards up the main run of the mountain a rounded nozzle points at an angle into the air. A large ho
se leads from its opposite end, running down and into the depression behind the fuel truck. As she studies the mountainside she sees more and more of the hoses and nozzles positioned on either side of the slope.
“What are those?” she asks, pointing upward.
“Snowmaking guns,” Tia says.
“How do they work?”
“Usually they siphon water from a source, like that dried-up reservoir there, and spray it under high pressure across the ski run. The mist freezes in the air and becomes snow.”
Zoey’s heart starts to pick up speed. “How are they powered?”
“With a pump. Probably another engine or generator. Why?”
“Yeah, girl, what’s going on in that head of yours?” Eli asks, coming closer.
Her eyes flick up the steep grade, to the chairlifts, down to the trade, back to the snow guns. Her mind buzzes with frenzied thought, the panorama that takes shape creating a sinking hole in the base of her stomach.
Can we do it?
But that’s not the question, is it?
The question is, can we live with it?
She stumbles over the enormity of it. No. What she’s having Lyle create is one thing, but the thought of what will happen if the plan works, what she and the others will see, is unforgivable.
But then the image of Merrill lying on the ground, one leg missing as the giant towers over him, blooms to life in her mind. She sees Chelsea being taken, carried away by a half dozen men, her screams of anguish so heart-achingly real Zoey shivers.
There’s no other choice. We have to.
“Zoey?” Ian asks. There is something in his tone, a cautiousness that borders on fear.
She looks at him, at all of them. “I’m their weakness.”
“What are you talking about?” Tia asks.
“I’ve gone over every terrible situation I’ve been in since escaping the ARC. In each one the only reason I’ve survived is because of weakness.” She ticks off her fingers. “NOA underestimated the women’s ability to escape and they never thought we could infiltrate the facility when we broke the others out. Overconfidence was their weakness. At Riverbend Ken thought he could force his way out, dominate us, that we would never meet him head-on. That was his. And the trade’s weakness is auctioning off the youngest woman they can find.” She steels herself for what she knows will come. “In other words, me.”
Ian shakes his head. “No. That’s not going to happen.”
“It’s our only option. There’s no other way to save Merrill and Chelsea.”
“So you’re going to sacrifice yourself?” Tia says, huffing a laugh. “Maybe I’m wrong about you. Maybe you are dumb as a stump.”
“No, not sacrifice.”
“Then what?” Eli asks. He puts a hand on her shoulder when she doesn’t answer. “Then what?”
She tells them.
When she’s finished they stare at her. Tia’s mouth is partially open and Eli keeps shaking his head in small movements as if tormented by an insect. But Ian’s eyes are the worst. The sadness in them nearly crushes her resolve and she almost tells them to forget what she said, discard the horror of the proposal and search for another avenue.
But she knows there is none.
They stand beside the chalet in the cool air, Ian, Eli, and Tia on one side, Zoey on the other. And at that moment she’s sure this is how it will be from now on. She is outside, separate and getting further away even though she’s standing still.
“We won’t let you,” Ian says. “It’s too . . .” But his voice fails and he swallows, glancing away.
“It’s my plan. I own it. I’ll take responsibility for it.”
“If we were to go through with it, the burden lies on all of us. You know we wouldn’t let you shoulder it alone.”
She feels a spark of gratitude that’s instantly snuffed out by the knowledge that he’s right. If it works they’ll all share the weight, and that hurts her more than anything. “What we need to do is figure out if it’s even possible.”
Zoey stares at Tia until the older woman finally sighs. “If the fuel was stored decently and will still ignite in the diesels, yes, it should.”
“I won’t do it,” Eli says. “You can’t go through with this, girl. It’s suicide.”
“Not if it works.”
“If it doesn’t work, you die.” He taps his chest. “And if it does, you die here.” He rolls up his sleeve, exposing the tattoo on his arm and points to the ink. “She was my fiancée. And she’s dead because of me, of the decisions that I made.” The fierceness in his eyes fades and he swallows. “Please. There’s some things you can’t take back.”
Her jaw trembles. “I know, but it’s the only way.”
“I don’t think you understand what you’re saying,” Ian says.
“Yes I do!” Her voice rings off the building, drifting away in the forest. Ian frowns, looking down at the broken concrete beneath their feet. “I do,” she says more quietly, voice cracking.
She gives each of them a long, pleading look. “It’s my fault they’re going to die, and I know I couldn’t live with that. So please. Please help me.”
40
Merrill watches the guards bring the starving man out from the shipping container and lead him to the high wire strung above the row of spikes.
He is emaciated, bones poking at his pale skin so harshly that he reminds Merrill of a house stripped of its siding revealing the structure beneath. The guards shove and prod him forward through a mob of jeering men, most of whom, up until only minutes ago, were calling out epithets at Merrill through the bars of his cage. They had assured him he would die tonight in the arena, die on the ground like a crippled dog being put out of its misery.
Merrill rubs the smooth stump of his right leg, touches the scarring like a blind man reading a story. He tried fitting a twisted length of wood that he’d found outside his cell into the remnants of his prosthetic, but the branch was weathered and dry and snapped as soon as he put any weight on it.
No, there will be no fixing his leg by nightfall. He will face his final opponent from the ground.
Or there is the other option that he won’t let himself think about.
The guards guide the scrawny man to the ladder leading to the makeshift platform, twenty-five feet above the ground where the high wire is attached. The man eyes the eight-inch spikes driven into the soil below the wire and tries to flee back toward the container, but the guards catch him by the thinness of his upper arms and sling him hard into the ladder.
Merrill grimaces at the howls of the crowd. Animals. Nothing more. And the idea rises again like a nightmare.
When they give you the knife tonight, throw it to Chelsea. She’ll be able to slit her wrists before they stop her and you’ll die knowing she won’t suffer like Halie did.
He lets out a shaky breath. Could he do it? Could he give her the means to kill herself? Watch her die? When compared with the alternative that awaits her, he’s sure he can.
The man mounts the ladder and barely has the energy to climb, but one of the guards produces a knife and pokes him in the buttock hard enough to make him bleed. A bright ribbon of blood runs down the man’s leg from beneath the torn shorts he wears and he climbs to the platform. At the top a balance pole waits and he grasps it before edging to the wire.
“That’s it! And if you make it all the way across, you’re free!” one of the guards yells before turning his head to grin at the crowd. They erupt in laughter, and taunts are thrown like javelins as the man puts one foot on the wire.
He steadies himself, bare sole wobbling, before swinging his other foot out.
The balance pole tips and he leans almost inhumanly far to the right before coming back to center.
The men below boo and hiss.
He takes another step, and another.
The spikes below wait like hungry teeth.
Merrill slides to the bars and hoists himself upright, eyes following the man’s progress. Even though
he knows there is no freedom at the other end of the wire, hope still rises within him and quiet words of encouragement come from his lips with each successful step.
The man sways, correcting his footing, sweat shining on his wrinkled brow, eyes looking straight ahead.
He is twelve steps from the end.
“Come on,” Merrill whispers.
Eleven.
Ten.
Nine.
When he is less than fifteen feet from the platform, Merrill hears it.
A low whistling coming across the valley, the brown grass and sage stirring. The midday sun peers through the overcast sky for a brief second under the wind’s insistence, its light snagging on the points of the spikes.
Then it recedes again, turning the world to ash beneath the scudding clouds.
The wind shoves the man to the left.
The pole tips, tips, tips, and drops from his hands.
His arms pinwheel.
He finally looks down to the waiting points beneath.
And falls.
Merrill looks away but he can’t block out the wet crunching sound or the deafening roar of approval.
He hops away from the bars and slides down the rear of the cage. The last time he knew this kind of sorrow, this much hopelessness, was when he buried his wife beside her rose garden in their backyard. The despair fills him up and overflows as tears cloud his vision and he weeps into one hand.
After a time the mass of men disperses, the spectacle over for now, and his tears dry in the cold, arid wind that continues to blow. Footsteps bring his head up along with a smell that drowns out the scent of blood.
The woman who attended the beheading stands outside his cage, a steaming bowl in her hands. She is medium height and has the shrunken look of someone whose frame is used to carrying more weight than it holds. Her hair is reddish brown and when his gaze lands on her face he realizes he knows her.
She kneels, tipping the bowl slightly to the side to slide it through the bars. She sets it on the ground and meets his eyes.
“Careful, the bottom’s hot,” she says, and then is gone, moving past the guard that stands before his cage.
